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The Pawns Count

by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #9836 · 420,081 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Pawns Count

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim


        
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9836]
                Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

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THE PAWNS COUNT

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM


1918


FOREWORD

"I am for England and England only," John Lutchester, the Englishman,
asserted.

"I am for Japan and Japan only," Nikasti, the Jap, insisted.

"I am for Germany first and America afterwards," Oscar Fischer, the
German-American pronounced.

"I am for America first, America only, America always," Pamela Van
Teyl, the American girl, declared.

They were all right except the German-American.




CHAPTER I


Mefiez-Vous!

Taisez-Vous!

Les Oreilles Ennemies Vous Ecoutent!

The usual little crowd was waiting in the lobby of a fashionable London
restaurant a few minutes before the popular luncheon hour. Pamela Van
Teyl, a very beautiful American girl, dressed in the extreme of
fashion, which she seemed somehow to justify, directed the attention of
her companions to the notice affixed to the wall facing them.

"Except," she declared, "for you poor dears who have been hurt, that is
the first thing I have seen in England which makes me realise that you
are at war."

The younger of her two escorts, Captain Richard Holderness, who wore
the uniform of a well-known cavalry regiment, glanced at the notice a
little impatiently.

"What rot it seems!" he exclaimed. "We get fed up with that sort of
thing in France. It's always the same at every little railway station
and every little inn. 'Mefiez-vous! Taisez-vous!' They might spare us
over here."

John Lutchester, a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed in civilian clothes,
raised his eyeglass and read out the notice languidly.

"Well, I don't know," he observed. "Some of you Service fellows--not
the Regulars, of course--do gas a good deal when you come back. I don't
suppose you any of you know anything, so it doesn't really matter," he
added, glancing at his watch.

"Army's full of Johnnies, who come from God knows where nowadays,"
Holderness assented gloomily. "No wonder they can't keep their mouths
shut."

"Seems to me you need them all," Miss Pamela Van Teyl remarked with a
smile.

"Of course we do," Holderness assented, "and Heaven forbid that any of
us Regulars should say a word against them. Jolly good stuff in them,
too, as the Germans found out last month."

"All the same," Lutchester continued, still studying the notice, "news
does run over London like quicksilver. If you step down to the American
bar here, for instance, you'll find that Charles is one of the
best-informed men about the war in London. He has patrons in the Army,
in the Navy, and in the Flying Corps, and it's astonishing how
communicative they seem to become after the second or third cocktail."

"Cocktail, mark you, Miss Van Teyl," Holderness pointed out. "We poor
Englishmen could keep our tongues from wagging before we acquired some
of your American habits."

"The habits are all right," Pamela retorted. "It's your heads that are
wrong."

"The most valued product of your country," Lutchester murmured, "is
more dangerous to our hearts than to our heads."

She made a little grimace and turned away, holding out her hand to a
new arrival--a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a strong, cold face and
keen, grey eyes, aggressive even behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
There was a queer change in his face as his eyes met Pamela's. He
seemed suddenly to become more human. His pleasure at seeing her was
certainly more than the usual transatlantic politeness.

"Mr. Fischer," she exclaimed, "they are saying hard things about our
country! Please protect me."

He bowed over her fingers. Then he looked up. His tone was impressive.

"If I thought that you needed protection, Miss Van Teyl--"

"Well, I can assure you that I do," she interrupted, laughing. "You
know my friends, don't you?"

"I think I have that pleasure," the American replied, shaking hands
with Lutchester and Holderness.

"Now we'll get an independent opinion," the former observed, pointing
to the wall. "We were discussing that notice, Mr. Fischer. You're
almost as much a Londoner as a New Yorker. What do you think?--is it
superfluous or not?"

Fischer read it out and smiled.

"Well," he admitted, "in America we don't lay much store by that sort
of thing, but I don't know as we're very good judges about what goes on
over here. I shouldn't call this place, anyway, a hotbed of intrigue.
Excuse me!"

He moved off to greet some incoming guests--a well-known stockbroker
and his partner. Lutchester looked after him curiously.

"Is Mr. Fischer one of your typical millionaires, Miss Van Teyl?" he
asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"We have no typical millionaires," she assured him. "They come from all
classes and all States."

"Fischer is a Westerner, isn't he?"

Pamela nodded, but did not pursue the conversation. Her eyes were fixed
upon a girl who had just entered, and who was looking a little
doubtfully around, a girl plainly but smartly dressed, with fluffy
light hair, dark eyes, and a very pleasant expression. Pamela, who was
critical of her own sex, found the newcomer attractive.

"Is that, by any chance, one of our missing guests, Captain
Holderness?" she inquired, turning towards him. "I don't know why, but
I have an idea that it is your sister."

"By Jove, yes!" the young man assented, stepping forward. "Here we are,
Molly, and at last you are going to meet Miss Van Teyl. I've bored
Molly stiff, talking about you," he explained, as Pamela held out her
hand.

The girls, who stood talking together for a moment, presented rather a
striking contrast. Molly Holderness was pretty but usual. Pamela was
beautiful and unusual. She had the long, slim body of a New York girl,
the complexion and eyes of a Southerner, the savoir faire of a
Frenchwoman. She was extraordinarily cosmopolitan, and yet
extraordinarily American. She impressed every one, as she did Molly
Holderness at that moment, with a sense of charm. One could almost
accept as truth her own statement--that she valued her looks chiefly
because they helped people to forget that she had brains.

"I won't admit that I have ever been bored, Miss Van Teyl," Molly
Holderness assured her, "but Dick has certainly told me all sorts of
wonderful things about you--how kind you were in New York, and what a
delightful surprise it was to see you down at the hospital at Nice. I
am afraid he must have been a terrible crock then."

"Got well in no time as soon as Miss Van Teyl came along," Holderness
declared. "It was a bit dreary down there at first. None of my lot were
sent south, and a familiar face means a good deal when you've got your
lungs full of that rotten gas and are feeling like nothing on earth. I
wonder where that idiot Sandy is. I told him to be here a quarter of an
hour before you others--thought we might have had a quiet chat first.
Will you stand by the girls for a moment, Lutchester, while I have a
look round?" he added.

He hobbled away, one of the thousands who were thronging the streets
and public places of London--brave, simple-minded young men, all of
them, with tangled recollections in their brains of blood and fire and
hell, and a game leg or a lost arm to remind them that the whole thing
was not a nightmare. He looked a little disconsolately around, and was
on the point of rejoining the others when the friend for whom he was
searching came hurriedly through the turnstile doors.

"Sandy, old chap," Holderness exclaimed, with an air of relief, "here
you are at last!"

"Cheero, Dick!" was the light-hearted reply. "Fearfully sorry I'm late,
but listen--just listen for one moment."

The newcomer threw his hat and coat to the attendant. He was a rather
short, freckled young man, with a broad, high forehead and
light-coloured hair. His eyes just now were filled with the enthusiasm
which trembled in his tone.

"Dick," he continued, gripping his friend's arm tightly, "I'm late, I
know, but I've great news. I've motored straight up from Salisbury
Plain. I've done it! I swear to you, Dick, I've done it!"

"Done what?" Holderness demanded, a little bewildered.

"I've perfected my explosive--the thing I was telling you about last
week," was the triumphant reply. "The whole world's struggling for it,
Dick. The German chemists have been working night and day for three
years, just for one little formula, and I've got it! One of my shells,
which fell in a wood at daylight this morning, killed every living
thing within a mile of it. The bark fell off the trees, and the
labourers in a field beyond threw down their implements and ran for
their lives. It's the principle of intensification. The poison feeds on
its own vapours. The formula--I've got it in my pocket-book--"

"Look here, old fellow," Holderness interrupted, "it's all splendid, of
course, and I'm dying to hear you talk about it, but come along now and
be introduced to Miss Van Teyl. Molly's over there, waiting, and we're
all half starved."

"So am I," was the cheerful answer. "Hullo, Lutchester, how are you?
Just one moment. I must get a wash, I motored straight through, and I'm
choked with dust. Where do I go?"

"I'll show you," Lutchester volunteered. "Hurry up."

The two men sprang up the stairs towards the dressing-room, and
Holderness strolled back to where his sister and Pamela were talking to
a small, dark young man, with rather high cheek-bones and olive
complexion. Pamela turned around with a smile.

"I have found an old friend," she told him. "Baron Sunyea--Captain
Holderness. Baron Sunyea used to be in the Japanese Embassy at
Washington."

The two men shook hands.

"I was interested," the Japanese said slowly, "in your conversation
just now about that notice. Your young friend was telling you news very
loudly indeed, it seemed to me, which you would not like known across
the North Sea. Am I not right?"

"In a sense you are, of course," Holderness admitted, "but here at
Henry's--why, the place is like a club. Where are the enemies' ears to
come from, I should like to know?"

"Where we least expect to find them, as a rule," was the grave reply.

"Quite right," Lutchester, who had just rejoined them, agreed. "They
still say, you know, that our home Secret Service is just as bad as our
foreign Secret Service is good."

Holderness smiled in somewhat superior fashion.

"Can't say that I have much faith in that spy talk," he declared. "No
doubt there was any quantity of espionage before the war, but it's
pretty well weeded out now. I say, how good civilisation is!" he went
on, his eyes dwelling lovingly on the interior of the restaurant.
"Tophole, isn't it, Lutchester--these smart girls, with their furs and
violets and perfumes, the little note of music in the distance, the
cheerful clatter of plates, the smiling faces of the waiters, and the
undercurrent of pleasant voices. Don't laugh at me, please, Miss Van
Teyl. I've three weeks more of it, by George--perhaps more. I don't go
up before my Board till Thursday fortnight. Dash it, I wish Sandy would
hurry up!"

"You never told me how you got your wound," Pamela observed, as the
conversation flagged for a moment.

"Can't even remember," was the careless reply. "We were all scrapping
away as hard as we could one afternoon, and nearly a dozen of us got
the knock, all at the same time. It's quite all right now, though,
except for the stiffness. It was the gas did me in.... What a fellow
Sandy is! You people must be starving."

They waited for another five minutes. Then Holderness limped towards
the stairs with a little imprecation. Lutchester stopped him.

"Don't you go, Holderness," he begged. "I'll find him and bring him
down by the scruff of the neck."

He strode up the stairs on a mission which ended in unexpected failure.
Presently he returned, a slight frown upon his forehead.

"I am awfully sorry," he announced, "but I can't find him anywhere. I
left him washing his hands, and he said he'd be down in a moment. Are
you quite sure that we haven't missed him?"

"There hasn't been a sign of him," Molly declared promptly. "I am so
hungry that my eyes have been glued upon the staircase all the time."

Pamela, who had slipped away a few moments before, rejoined them with a
little expression of surprise.

"Isn't Captain Graham here yet?" she asked incredulously.

"Not a sign of him," Holderness replied. "Queer set out, isn't it? We
won't wait a moment longer. Take my sister and Miss Van Teyl in, will
you?" he went on, laying his hand on Lutchester's shoulder. "Ferrani
will look after you. I'll follow directly."

The chief maitre d'hotel advanced to meet them with a gesture of
invitation, and led them to a table arranged for five. The restaurant
was crowded, and the coloured band, from the space against the wall on
their left, was playing a lively one-step. Ferrani was buttonholed by
an important client as they crossed the threshold, and they lingered
for a moment, waiting for his guidance. Whilst they stood there, a
curious thing happened. The leader of the orchestra seemed to draw his
fingers recklessly across the strings of his instrument and to produce
a discord which was almost appalling. A half-pained, half-amused
exclamation rippled down the room. For a moment the music ceased. The
conductor, who was responsible for the disturbance, was sitting
motionless, his hand hanging down by his side. His features remained
imperturbable, but the gleam of his white teeth, and a livid little
streak under his eyes gave to his usually good-humoured face an utterly
altered, almost a malignant expression. Ferrani stepped across and
spoke to him for a moment angrily. The man took up his instrument,
waved his hand, and the music re-commenced in a subdued note. Pamela
turned to the chief maitre d'hotel, who had now re-joined them.

"What an extraordinary breakdown!" she exclaimed. "Is your leader a man
of nerves?"

"Never have I heard such a thing in all my days," Ferrani assured them
fervently. "Joseph is one of the most wonderful performers in the
world. His control over his instrument is marvellous.... Captain
Holderness asked particularly for this table."

They seated themselves at the table reserved for them against the wall.
Their cicerone was withdrawing with a low bow, but Pamela leaned over
to speak to him.

"Your music," she told him, "is quite wonderful. The orchestra consists
entirely of Americans, I suppose?"

"Entirely, madam," Ferrani assented. "They are real Southern darkies,
from Joseph, the leader, down to little Peter, who blows the
motor-horn."

Pamela's interest in the matter remained unabated.

"I tell you it makes one feel almost homesick to hear them play," she
went on, with a little sigh. "Did they come direct from the States?"

Ferrani shook his head.

"From Paris, madam. Before that, for a little time, they were at the
Winter Garden in Berlin. They made quite a European tour of it before
they arrived here."

"And he is the leader--the man whom you call Joseph," Pamela observed.
"A broad, good-humoured face--not much intelligence, I should imagine."

Ferrani's protest was vigorous and gesticulatory. He evidently had
ideas of his own concerning Joseph.

"More, perhaps, than you would think, madam," he declared. "He knows
how to make a bargain, believe me. It cost us more than I would like to
tell you to get these fellows here."

Pamela looked him in the eyes.

"Be careful, Monsieur Ferrani," she advised, "that it does not cost you
more to get rid of them."

She leaned back in her place, apparently tired of the subject, and
Ferrani, a little puzzled, made his bow and withdrew. The music was
once more in full swing. Their luncheon was served, and Lutchester did
his best to entertain his companions. Their eyes, however, every few
seconds strayed towards the door. There was no sign of the missing
guest.




CHAPTER II


Molly Holderness, for whom Graham's absence possessed, perhaps, more
significance than the others, relapsed very soon into a strained and
anxious silence. Pamela and Lutchester, on the other hand, divided
their attention between a very excellent luncheon and an even flow of
personal, almost inquisitorial conversation.

"You will find," Pamela warned her companion almost as they took their
places, "that I am a very curious person. I am more interested in
people than in events. Tell me something about your work at the War
Office?"

"I am not at the War Office," he replied.

"Well, what is it that you do, then?" she asked. "Captain Holderness
told me that you had been out in France, fighting, but that you had
some sort of official position at home now."

"I am at the Ministry of Munitions," he explained.

"Well, tell me about that, then?" she suggested. "Is it as exciting as
fighting?"

He shook his head.

"It has advantages," he admitted, "but I should scarcely say that
excitement figured amongst them."

She looked at him thoughtfully. Lutchester was a little over
thirty-five years of age, tall and of sinewy build. His colouring was
neutral, his complexion inclined to be pale, his mouth straight and
firm, his grey eyes rather deep-set. Without possessing any of the
stereotyped qualifications, he was sufficiently good-looking.

"I wonder you didn't prefer soldiering," she observed.

He smiled for a moment, and Pamela felt unreasonably annoyed at the
twinkle in his eyes.

"I am not a soldier by profession," he said, "but I went out with the
Expeditionary Force and had a year of it. They kept me here, after a
slight wound, to take up my old work again."

"Your old work," she repeated. "I didn't know there was such a thing as
a Ministry of Munitions before the war."

He deliberately changed the conversation, directing Pamela's attention
to the crowded condition of the room.

"Gay scene, isn't it?" he remarked.

"Very!" she assented drily.

"Do you come here to dance?" he inquired.

She shook her head.

"You must remember that I have been living in Paris for some months,"
she told him. "You won't be annoyed if I tell you that the way you
English people are taking the war simply maddens me. Your young
soldiers talk about it as though it were a sort of picnic, your
middle-aged clubmen seem to think that it was invented to give them a
fresh interest in their newspapers, and the rest of you seem to think
of nothing but the money you are making. And Paris.... No, I don't
think I should care to dance here!"

Lutchester nodded, but Pamela fancied somehow or other that his
attitude was not wholly sympathetic. His tone, with its slight note of
admonition, irritated her.

"You must be careful," he said, "not to be too much misled by
externals."

Pamela opened her lips for a quick reply, but checked herself.

Captain Holderness and Ferrani had entered the room and were
approaching their table, talking earnestly. The latter especially was
looking perplexed and anxious.

"It's the queerest thing I ever knew," Holderness pronounced. "We've
searched every hole and corner upstairs, and there isn't a sign of
Sandy."

"Have you tried the bar?" Lutchester inquired.

"Both the bar and the grillroom," Ferrani assured him.

"If he had been suddenly taken ill--" Molly murmured.

"But there is no place in which he could have been taken ill which we
have not searched," Ferrani reminded her.

"And besides," Holderness intervened, "Sandy was in the very pink of
health, and bubbling over with high-spirits."

"One noticed that," Lutchester remarked, a little drily.

"He might almost have been called garrulous," Pamela agreed.

Ferrani took grave leave of them, and Holderness seated himself at the
table.

"Well, let's get on with luncheon, anyway," he advised. "It's no good
bothering. The best thing we can do is to conclude that the impossible
has happened--that Sandy has met with some pals and will be here
presently."

"Or possibly," Lutchester suggested, "that he has done what certainly
seems the most reasonable thing--gone straight off to the War Office
with his formula and forgotten all about us. Let us return the
compliment and forget all about him."

They finished their luncheon a little more cheerfully. As the
cigarettes were handed round, Pamela's eyes looked longingly at a tray
of Turkish coffee which was passing.

"I'm a rotten host," Holderness declared, "but, to tell you the truth,
this queer prank of Sandy's has driven everything else out of my mind.
Here, Hassan!"

The coloured man in gorgeous oriental livery turned at once with a
smile. He approached the table, bowing to each of them in turn. Pamela
watched him intently, and, as his eyes met hers, Hassan's hands began
to shake.

"The waiter is bringing us ordinary coffee," Holderness explained.
"Please countermand it and bring us Turkish coffee for four."

The man had lost his savoir faire. His wonderful smile had turned into
something sickly, his bland speech of thanks into a mumble. He turned
away almost sheepishly.

"Hassan doesn't seem to like us to-day," Molly remarked.

"I should have said that he was drunk," her brother observed, looking
after him curiously.

There was certainly something the matter with Hassan, for it was at
least a quarter of an hour before he reappeared and served his
specially prepared concoction with the usual ceremony but with more
restraint. Molly and the two men, after Hassan had sprinkled the
contents of his mysterious little flask into their coffee, gave him
their hands for the customary salute. When he came to Pamela he
hesitated. She shook her head and he fell back, bowing respectfully,
his hand tracing cabalistic signs across his heart. For a moment before
he departed, he raised his eyes and glanced at her. It was like the
mute appeal of some hurt or frightened animal.

"You don't approve of Hassan's little ceremony?" Lutchester asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"In America," she observed, "I think we look upon coloured people of
any sort a little differently. Well, we've certainly given your friend
a chance," she went on, glancing at the little jewelled watch upon her
wrist, "We've outstayed almost every one here."

Their host paid the bill, and they strolled reluctantly towards the
door, Holderness and Pamela a few steps behind.

"Now what are your sister and Mr. Lutchester studying again?" the
latter inquired, as they reached the lobby.

Molly had paused once more before the notice on the wall, which seemed
somehow to have fascinated her. She read it out, lingering on every
word:

MEFIEZ-VOUS!
TAISEZ-VOUS!
LES OREILLES ENNEMIES VOUS
ECOUTENT!

Holderness listened with a frown. Then he turned suddenly to
Lutchester, who was standing by his side.

"It would be too ridiculous, wouldn't it--you couldn't in any way
connect the idea behind that notice with Sandy's disappearance?"

"I was wondering about that myself," Lutchester confessed. "To tell you
the truth, I have been wondering all luncheon-time. If ever a man broke
the letter and the spirit of that simple warning I should say your
excitable young friend, Captain Graham, did."

"But here at Henry's," Holderness protested, "with friends on every
side! Isn't it a little too ridiculous! We'll wait until the last
person is out of the place, anyway," he added.

The crowd soon began to thin. Ferrani, seeing them still waiting,
approached with a little bow.

"Your friend," he asked, "he has not arrived, eh?"

"No sign of him," Holderness replied gloomily.

"What about his hat and coat?" Ferrani inquired, with a sudden
inspiration.

"Great idea," Holderness assented, turning towards the cloakroom
attendant. "Don't you remember my friend, James?" he went on. "He
arrived about half-past one, and threw his coat and hat over to you."

The attendant nodded and glanced towards an empty peg.

"I remember him quite well, sir," he acknowledged. "Number sixty-seven
was his number."

"Where are his things, then?"

"Gone, sir," the man replied.

"Do you remember his asking for them?"

The attendant shook his head.

"Can't say that I do, sir," he acknowledged, "but they've gone right
enough."

A party of outgoing guests claimed the man's attention. Holderness
turned away.

"This thing is getting on my nerves," he declared. "Does it seem likely
that Sandy should chuck his luncheon without a word of explanation,
come out and get his coat and hat and walk off? And, besides, where was
he all the time we were looking for him?"

It was unanswerable, inexplicable. They all looked at one another
almost helplessly. Pamela held out her hand.

"Well," she announced, "I am sorry, but I'm afraid that I must go. I
have a great many things to attend to this afternoon."

"You are going away soon?" Lutchester inquired.

She hesitated, and at that moment Mr. Fischer, who had been saying
farewell to his guests, turned towards her.

"You are not thinking of the trip home yet, Miss Van Teyl?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered a little evasively. "I'm out of humour
with London just now."

"Perhaps we shall be fellow-passengers on Thursday?" he ventured. "I am
going over on the _New York_."

"I never make plans," she told him.

"In any case," Mr. Fischer continued, "I shall anticipate our early
meeting in New York. I heard from your brother only yesterday."

She looked at him with a slight frown.

"From James?"

Mr. Fischer nodded.

"Why, I didn't know," she observed, "that you and he were acquainted."

"I have had large transactions with his firm, and naturally I have seen
a good deal of Mr. Van Teyl," the other explained. "He looks after the
interests of us Western clients."

Pamela turned a little abruptly away, and Lutchester walked with her to
the door.

"You will let me see that they bring your car round?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Thank you, no," she replied, holding out her hand. "I have not yet
said good-by to Captain Holderness and his sister. Good-by, Mr.
Lutchester!"

Her farewell was purposely chilly. It seemed as though the slight
sparring in which they had indulged throughout luncheon-time, had found
its culmination in an antipathy which she had no desire to conceal.
Lutchester, however, only smiled.

"Nowadays," he observed, "that is a word which it is never necessary to
use."

She withdrew her hand from his somewhat too tenacious clasp. Something
in his manner puzzled as well as irritated her.

"Do you mean that you, too, are thinking of taking a holiday from your
strenuous labours?" she asked. "Perhaps America is the safest country
in the world just now for an Englishman who--"

She stopped short, realising the lengths towards which her causeless
pique was carrying her.

"Prefers departmental work to fighting, were you going to add?" he said
quietly. "Well, perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will content
myself by saying au revoir."

He passed through the turnstile door and disappeared. Pamela made her
adieux to Holderness and his sister, and then, recognising some
acquaintances, turned back into the restaurant to speak to them.
Fischer, who had just received his hat and cane from the cloakroom
attendant, stood watching her.




CHAPTER III


Pamela, after a brief conversation with her friends, once more left the
restaurant. In the lobby she called Ferrani to her.

"Has Mr. Fischer gone, Ferrani?" she asked.

"Not two minutes ago," the man replied. "You wish to speak to him? I
can stop him even now."

She shook her head.

"On the contrary," she said drily, "Mr. Fischer represents a type of my
countrymen of whom I am not very fond. He is a great patron of yours,
is he not?"

"He is a large shareholder in the company," Ferrani confessed.

"Then your restaurant will prosper," she told him. "Mr. Fischer has the
name of being very fortunate.... That was a wonderful luncheon you gave
us to-day."

"Madame is very kind."

"Will you do me a favour?"

Ferrani's gesture was all-expressive. Words were entirely superfluous.

"I want two addresses, please. First, the address of Joseph, your head
musician, and, secondly, the address of Hassan, your coffee-maker."

Ferrani effectually concealed any surprise he might have felt. He tore
a page from his pocket-book.

"Both I know," he declared. "Hassan lodges at a shop eighty yards away.
The name is Haines, and there are newspaper placards outside the door."

"That is quite enough," Pamela murmured.

"As for Monsieur Joseph," Ferrani continued, "that is a different
matter. He has, I understand, a small flat in Tower Mansions, Tower
Street, leading off the Edgware Road. The number is 18C. So!"

He wrote it down and passed it to her. Pamela thanked him and stood up.

"Now that I have done as you asked me," Ferrani concluded, "let me add
a word. Both these men are already off duty and have left the
restaurant. If you wish to communicate with either of them, I advise
you to do so by letter."

"You are a very courteous gentleman, Mr. Ferrani," Pamela declared,
dropping him a little mock curtsey, "and good morning!"

She made her way into the street outside, shook her head to the
commissionaire's upraised whistle, and strolled along until she came to
a cross street down which several motor-cars were waiting. She
approached one--a very handsome limousine--and checked the driver who
would have sprung from his seat.

"George," she said, "I am going to pay a call at a disreputable-looking
news-shop, just where I am pointing. You can't bring the car there, as
the street is too narrow. You might follow me on foot and be about."

The young man touched his hat and obeyed. A few yards down the street
Pamela found her destination, and entered a gloomy little shop. A
slatternly woman looked at her curiously from behind the counter.

"I am told that Hassan lodges here, the coffee-maker from Henry's,"
Pamela began.

The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion.

"Well?"

"I wish to see him."

"You can't, then," was the curt answer. "He's at his prayers."

"At what?" Pamela exclaimed.

"At his prayers," the woman repeated brusquely. "There," she added,
throwing open the door which led into the premises behind, "can't you
hear him, poor soul? He's been pinching some more charms from ladies'
bracelets, or something of the sort, I reckon. He's always in trouble.
He goes on like this for an hour or so and then he forgives himself."

Pamela stood by the open door and listened--listened to a strange,
wailing chant, which rose and fell with almost weird monotony.

"Very interesting," she observed. "I have heard that sort of thing
before. Now will you kindly tell Hassan that I wish to speak to him, or
shall I go and find him for myself?"

"Well, you've got some brass!" the woman declared, with a sneer.

"And some gold," Pamela assented, passing a pound note over to the
woman.

"Do you want to see him alone?" the latter asked, almost snatching at
the note, but still regarding Pamela with distrustful curiosity.

"Of course," was the calm reply.

The woman opened her lips and closed them again, sniffed, and led the
way down a short passage, at the end of which was a door.

"There you are," she muttered, throwing it open. "You've arst for it,
mind. 'Tain't my business."

She slouched her way back again into the shop. At first Pamela could
scarcely see anything except a dark figure on his knees before a closed
and shrouded window. Then she saw Hassan rise to his feet, saw the
glitter of his eyes.

"Pull up the blind, Hassan," she directed.

He came a step nearer to her. The gloom in the apartment was
extraordinary. Only his shape and his eyes were visible.

"Do as I tell you," she ordered. "Pull up the blind. It will be
better."

He hesitated. Then he obeyed. Even then the interior of the room seemed
shadowy and obscure. Pamela could only see, in contrast with the rest
of the house, that it was wonderfully and spotlessly clean. In one
corner, barely concealed by a low screen, his bed stood upon the floor.
Hassan muttered something in an Oriental tongue. Pamela interrupted
him. She spoke in the soothing tone one uses towards a child.

"That's all right, Hassan," she said. "Sorry to have interrupted you at
your prayers, but it had to be done. You know me?"

"Yes, mistress," he answered unwillingly. "I your dragoman one year in
Cairo. What you want here, mistress?"

"You know that I know," she went on, "that you are a Turk and a
Mohammedan, and not an Egyptian at all."

"Yes, mistress, you know that," he muttered.

"And you also know," she continued, "that if I give you away to the
authorities you will be sent at once to a very uncomfortable internment
camp, where you won't even have an opportunity to wash more than once a
day, where you will have to herd with all sorts of people, who will
make fun of your colour and your religion--"

"Don't, mistress!" he shouted suddenly. "You will not tell. I think you
will not tell!"

He was sidling a little towards her. Again one of those curious changes
seemed to have transformed him from a dumb, passive creature into a
savage. There was menace in his eyes. She waved him back without
moving.

"I have come to make a bargain with you, Hassan," she said, "just a few
words, that is all. Not quite so near, please."

He paused. There was a moment's silence. His face was within a foot of
hers, lowering, black, bestial. Her eyes met his without a tremor. Her
full, sweet lips only curved into a faintly contemptuous line.

"You cannot frighten me, Hassan," she declared. "No man has ever done
that. And outside I have a chauffeur with muscles of iron, who waits
for me. Be reasonable. Listen. There are secrets connected with your
restaurant."

"I know nothing," he began at once; "nothing, mistress--nothing!"

"Quite naturally," she continued. "I only need one piece of
information. A man disappeared there this morning. I just have to find
him. That's all there is about it. At half-past one he was inveigled
into the musicians' room and by some means or other rendered
unconscious. At three o'clock he had been removed. I want to know what
became of him. You help me and the whole world can believe you to be an
Egyptian for the rest of their lives. If you can't help me it is rather
unfortunate for you, because I shall tell the police at once who and
what you are. Don't waste time, Hassan."

He stood thinking, rubbing his hands and bowing before her, yet, as she
knew very well, with murder in his heart. Once she saw his long fingers
raised a little.

"Quite useless, Hassan," she warned him. "They hang you in England, you
know, for any little trifle such as you are thinking of. Be sensible,
and I may even leave a few pound notes behind me."

"Mistress should ask Joseph," he muttered. "I know nothing."

"Oh, mistress is going to ask Joseph all right," she assured him, "but
I want a little information from you, too. You've got to earn your
freedom, you know, Hassan. Come, what do they do with the people who
disappear from the restaurant?"

"Not understand," was the almost piteous reply.

Pamela sighed. She had again the air of one being patient with a child.

"See here, Hassan," she went on, "a few days ago I went over that
restaurant from top to bottom with the manager. There is the musicians'
room, isn't there, just over the entrance hall? I suppose those little
glass places in the floor are movable, and then one can hear every word
that is spoken below. I am right so far, am I not?"

Hassan answered nothing. His breathing, however, had become a little
deeper.

"An unsuspecting person, passing from the toilet rooms upstairs, could
easily be induced to enter. I think that there must be another exit
from that room. Yes?"

"Yes!" Hassan faltered.

"To where?"

"The wine-cellars."

"And from there?"

Hassan was suddenly voluble. Truth unlocked his tongue.

"Not know, mistress--not know another thing. No one enters wine-cellar
but three men. One of those not know. If I guess--I, Hassan--I look at
little chapel left standing in waste place. Perhaps I wonder sometimes,
but I not know."

Pamela drew three notes from her gold purse, smoothed them out and
handed them over.

"Three pounds, Hassan, silence, and good day! You'll live longer if you
open your windows now and then, and get a little fresh air, instead of
praying yourself hoarse."

Again the black figure swayed perilously towards her. She affected not
to notice, not to notice the hand which seemed for a moment as though
it would snatch the door handle from her grasp. She passed out
pleasantly and without haste. The last sound she heard was a groan.

"Done your bit o' business, eh?" the landlady asked curiously.

Pamela nodded assent.

"Rather an odd sort of lodger for you, isn't he?"

"Not so odd as his visitors," the woman retorted, with an evil sneer.

Pamela passed into the narrow street and drew a long sigh of relief.
Then she entered her car and gave the chauffeur an address from the
slip of paper which she carried in her hand. When they stopped outside
the little block of flats he prepared to follow her.

"Tough neighbourhood this, madam," he said.

"Maybe, George," she replied, waving him back, "but you've got to stay
down here. If the man I am going to see thought I was frightened of him
I wouldn't have a chance. If I am not down in half an hour you can try
number 18C."

The chauffeur resumed his place on the driving-seat of the car. Pamela,
heartily disliking her surroundings, was escorted by a shabby porter to
a shabbier lift.

"You'll find Mr. Joseph in," the lift boy assured her with a grin.

Pamela found the number at the end of an unswept stone passage. At her
third summons the door was cautiously opened by a large,
repulsive-looking woman, with a mass of peroxidised hair. She stared at
her visitor first in amazement, then in rapidly gathering resentment.

"Mr. Joseph is at home," she admitted truculently, in response to
Pamela's inquiry. "What might you be wanting with him?"

"If you will be so good as to let me in I will explain to Mr. Joseph,"
Pamela replied.

The woman seemed on the point of slamming the door. Suddenly there was
a voice from behind her shoulder. Joseph appeared--not the smiling,
joyous Joseph of Henry's but a sullen-looking negro, dressed in shirt
and trousers only, with a heavy under-lip and frowning forehead.

"Let the lady pass and get into the kitchen, Nora," he ordered, "Come
this way, mam."

Pamela followed her guide into a parlour, redolent of stale cigar
smoke, with oilcloth on the floor and varnished walls, an abode even
more horrible than Hassan's lair. Joseph closed the door carefully
behind him, and made no apology for his dishabille. He simply faced
Pamela.

"Say, what is it you want with me?" he demanded truculently.

"A trifle," she answered. "The key of the chapel in the little plot of
waste ground next Henry's."

She meant him to be staggered, and he was. He reeled back for a moment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he gasped.

"Facts," Pamela replied. "Do you want to save yourself, Joseph? You can
do it if you choose."

He folded his arms and stood in front of the closed door. Without a
collar, his neck bulged unpleasantly behind. There was nothing whatever
left of the suave and genial chef d'orchestra.

"Save myself from what, eh? Just let me get wise about it."

Pamela's eyebrows were daintily elevated.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "I thought you were more intelligent. Listen.
You know where we met last? Let me remind you. You were playing in the
Winter Garden at Berlin, and the gentleman whom I was with, an attache
at the American Embassy, spoke to you. He told me a good deal about
your past life, Joseph, and your present one. You are in the pay of the
Secret Service of Germany. Am I to go to Scotland Yard and tell them
so?"

He looked at her wickedly.

"You'd have to get out of here first."

"Don't be silly," she advised him contemptuously. "Remember you're
talking to an American woman and don't waste your breath. You can be in
the Secret Service of any country you like, without interference from
me. On the other hand, there's just one thing I want from you."

"What is it? I haven't got any key."

"I want to discover exactly what has become of Captain Graham," she
declared.

"What, the guy that missed his lunch to-day?" he growled.

"I see you know all about it," she continued equably.

"So he's your spark, is he?" Joseph observed slowly, his eyes blinking
as he leaned a little forward.

"On the contrary," Pamela replied, "I have never met him. However,
that's beside the point. Do I have the key of that chapel?"

"You do not."

"Have you got it?"

"Right here," Joseph assented, dangling it before her eyes.

"I think it's a fair bargain I'm offering you," she reminded him. "You
lose the key and keep your place. You only have to keep your mouth shut
and nothing happens."

"Nothing doing," the negro declared shortly. "Keys as important as this
ain't lost. If I part with it, I get the chuck, and I probably get into
the same mess as the others. If I keep it--"

"If you keep it," Pamela interrupted, "you will probably stand with
your back to the light in the Tower within the next few days. They've
left off being lenient with spies over here."

He looked at her, and there were things in his eyes which few women in
the world could have seen without terror. Pamela's lips only came a
little closer together. She pressed the inside of the ring upon her
third finger, and a ray of green fire seemed to shoot forward.

"I guess I'm up against it," he growled, taking a step forward. "I'll
have something of what's coming to me, if I swing for it."

His arm was suddenly around her, his face hideously close. He gave a
little snarl as he felt the pinprick through his shirt sleeve. Then he
went spinning round and round with his hand to his head.

"What in God's name!" he spluttered. "What in hell--!"

He reeled against the horsehair easy-chair and slipped on to the floor.
Pamela calmly closed her ring, stooped over him, withdrew the key from
his pocket, crossed the room and the dingy little hall with swift
footsteps, and, without waiting for the lift, fled down the stone
steps. Before she reached the bottom, she heard the shrill ringing of
the lift bell, the angry shouting of the woman. Pamela, however,
strolled quietly out and took her place in the car.

"Back to the hotel, George," she directed the chauffeur. "Don't stop if
they call to you from the flats."

The young man sprang up to his seat and the car glided off. Pamela
leaned forward and looked at herself in the mirror. There was a shade
more colour in her face, perhaps, than usual, but her low waves of
chestnut hair were unruffled. She used her powder puff with attentive
skill and leaned back.

"That's the disagreeable part of it over, anyway," she sighed to
herself contentedly.




CHAPTER IV


The last of the supper-guests had left Henry's Restaurant, the
commissionaire's whistle was silent. The light laughter and frivolous
adieux of the departing guests seemed to have melted away into a world
somewhere beyond the pale of the unseasonable fog. The little strip of
waste ground adjoining was wrapped in gloom and silence. The exterior
of the bare and deserted chapel, long since unconsecrate, was dull and
lifeless. Inside, however, began the march of strange things. First of
all, the pinprick of light of a tiny electric torch seemed as though it
had risen from the floor, and Hassan, pushing back a trap-door, stepped
into the bare, dusty conventicle. He listened for a moment, then made a
tour of the windows, touched a spring in the wall, and drew down long,
thick blinds. Afterwards he passed between the row of dilapidated
benches and paused at the entrance door. He stooped down, examined the
keyless lock, shook it gently, gazed upwards and downwards as though in
vain search of bolts that were never there. His white teeth gleamed for
a moment in the darkness. He turned away with a little shiver.

"Not my fault," he muttered to himself. "Not my fault."

He listened for a moment intently, as though for footsteps outside. The
disturbance, however, came from the other end of the building. There
was a sharp knocking from the trap-door by which he had ascended. He
touched an electric knob. The place was dimly yet sufficiently
illuminated. He hastened towards the further end of the place and
pulled up the trap-door. A melancholy-looking little procession slowly
emerged. First of all came Joseph, stepping backwards, supporting the
head and shoulders of Graham, still bound and gagged. After him came a
dark, swarthy-faced wine waiter, who supported Graham's feet. Behind
followed Fischer, carrying his silk hat and cane in his hand. He paused
for a moment as he stepped on the floor of the chapel, and brushed the
dust from his trousers.

"You can take out the gag now," he ordered the two men. "There isn't
much shout in him."

They laid him upon a couch, and Joseph obeyed the order. Graham's head
swung helplessly on one side. His eyes opened, however, and he
struggled for consciousness. His lips twitched for a moment. In these
long hours he had almost forgotten the habit of speech. The words, when
they came, sounded strange to him.

"What--where am I? What do you want with me?"

Fischer laid his hat and stick upon a table, on which also stood a
telephone instrument.

"The formula, my young friend," he replied, "for that wonderful
explosive of which you spoke in the lobby."

A sudden accession of nervous strength brought something almost like
passion into the young man's reply, although to himself there still
seemed some unreality in the words which might have come from the walls
or the roof--surely not from his lips.

"I'll see you damned first!"

Fischer smiled. The man was good-looking, in his way, but this was a
pale and ugly smile.

"My request was merely a matter of courtesy," he remarked. "The
difficulty of searching you is not formidable. It would have been
undertaken long ago but for the fact that the restaurant has been
crowded and gags sometimes slip. Besides, there was no hurry. Observe!"

He leaned over Graham, who for the first time struggled furiously but
ineffectually with his bonds. His fingers all the time were straining
towards the inside pocket of his coat. Fischer nodded understandingly.

"Allow me to anticipate you," he said.

With a quick thrust he drew a little handful of papers from the pocket
of his captive. One by one he glanced them through and flung them on to
the floor. As he came towards the end of his search, however, his
expression of confident complacency vanished. His lips shrivelled up a
little, his eyes narrowed. The last folded sheet of paper--a little
perfumed note from Peggy, thanking Sandy for his beautiful roses--he
crumpled fiercely into a little ball. He opened his lips to speak, then
he paused. A new light broke in upon him. The fury had passed from
Sandy Graham's face. In its stead there was an expression of blank
astonishment.

"Where is the formula?" Fischer asked fiercely.

There was no reply. Sandy Graham was still staring at the little pile
of papers upon the floor. Fischer made a brief examination of the other
pockets. Then he stepped back. His voice shook, his face was dark and
malevolent.

"Joseph, Hassan, Jules--listen to me!" he ordered. "Did any one else
enter the musicians' room whilst he was lying in the alcove?"

"Impossible!" Jules declared.

"The door was locked," Hassan murmured.

"Stop!" Joseph exclaimed.

Fischer wheeled round upon him.

"Well?" he exclaimed. "Get on, then. Who?"

Joseph moistened his lips. He was still feeling sore and dizzy, but he
began to see his way.

"You noticed, perhaps," he said, "the American girl--the beautiful
young lady with this guy's friends? She was waiting with the others for
Captain Graham to come down. I saw her go up the stairs. I saw her come
down again, three minutes later."

"Miss Van Teyl?" Fischer exclaimed, with a frown. "You're mad, Joseph!"

The negro laughed grimly.

"Am I!" he retorted. "I tell you this, Master Fischer. She was in
Berlin where I was, and she was at the Embassy every day. She was asked
to leave there. They put her over the frontier into Holland. I knew her
when she came into the restaurant. She's no society young lady, she
ain't! Bet you she was on to the goods."

Fischer hesitated for a moment. The thoughts were chasing one another
through his brain. Then he took up the receiver from the telephone
instrument which stood upon the table.

"1560 Mayfair," he asked in a low tone.

They all stood listening, grouped around Graham's writhing figure.

"Hullo! Is that Claridge's Hotel?" Fischer went on. "I am speaking from
Giro's. Put me through, if you please, to Miss Van Teyl's apartments...
What? Repeat that, will you?... Thank you."

Fischer laid down the receiver. He turned towards the others. He was
breathing a little quickly, and his eyes glittered behind his
gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Miss Van Teyl," he announced, "has left for Tilbury. She is going out
on the _Lapland_ this morning. My God, she's got the formula!"

There was a moment's silence. Joseph was standing by with a wicked look
on his face.

"I saw her slip away," he muttered, "and I watched her come down again.
There was just time."

Fischer turned suddenly to where Graham was lying. He drew a sheet of
writing paper from the rack upon the table, and a pencil from his
pocket. There was an evil and concentrated significance in his tone.

"That formula," he said, "can be written again. I think you had better
write it."

"I'll see you damned first!" was the weak but prompt reply.

Fischer bent a little lower over the prostrate figure, "Look here," he
went on, "we don't run risks like this for nothing. You're better dead
than alive, so far as we are concerned, anyway. We'd planned to take
the formula from you, and you can guess the rest. There are cellars
underneath here into which no one ever goes who matters. Now here's a
chance of life for you. Write down that formula--truthfully, mind--and
we'll discuss the matter of taking your parole."

"See you damned first!" Graham repeated, his voice a little more
tremulous but still convincing.

Fischer stood upright and turned to Jules.

"Get a bottle of brandy and a glass," he ordered.

The man pushed open the trap-door and disappeared. He came back again
in a few moments, with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other.
Fischer poured out some of the cordial and drew a small table up to
Graham's side.

"There," he said, loosening the cord around his left wrist, "drink
that, and think it over. We shall be gone for about ten minutes. If you
change your mind before, ring that little hand-bell. If you have not
changed your mind when we return, it will be the cellars."

"Beasts!" Graham muttered.

Fischer shrugged his shoulders. For a moment he had straightened
himself. His face had softened, but it was in tune with his thoughts.

"I would twist the necks of a million fools like you," he said, "for
the sake of--"

He paused, leaving his sentence uncompleted, and beckoned to the other
men. They followed him through the trap-door and down into the cellars
below. The place was once more silent. Graham rolled from side to side,
drew a long breath, and tugged vainly at his bonds. The effort
overtaxed his strength. He seemed to feel the darkness closing in upon
him, the rushing of the sea in his ears....




CHAPTER V


So far as Sandy Graham was concerned, his unconsciousness might have
lasted an hour or a day. As a matter of fact, it was scarcely a minute
after the disappearance of Fischer and his confederates when he was
conscious of a rush of cold air in the place, and beheld the vision of
a tiny flash of light at the lower end of the gloomy building.
Immediately afterwards he heard the soft closing of a door and beheld a
tall, shadowy figure slowly approaching. He lay quite still and looked
at it, and his heart began to beat with hope. One of the lights had
been left burning, and there was something in the bearing and attitude
of the man who finally came to a standstill by his side, which was
entirely reassuring.

"Lutchester!" he faltered. "My God, how did you get here?"

"Offices of a young lady," Lutchester observed, producing a knife from
his pocket. "Allow me!"

He cut the cords which still secured Graham's limbs. Then he looked
around him.

"How did they bring you here?" he whispered. "I suppose there is a
passage from the restaurant?"

"Up through a trapdoor there," Graham explained, pointing.

Lutchester stood over it and listened intently.

Then he turned around, lifted the glass of brandy from the table, smelt
it approvingly, and tasted it.

"Excellent!" he pronounced. "The 1840. Allow me!"

He refilled the glass and handed it to Sandy, who gulped down the
contents. The effect was almost instantaneous. In less than a minute he
had staggered to his feet.

"Feel strong enough to walk about fifty yards?" Lutchester inquired.

"I'd walk to hell to get out of this place!" was the prompt reply.

Lutchester took his arm, and they passed down the dusty aisle between
the worm-eaten and decaying benches and through the outside door, which
Lutchester closed and locked behind them. The rush of cold air was like
new life to Graham.

"I can walk all right now," he muttered. "My God, we'll give these
fellows hell for this!"

They made their very difficult way across a plot of ground from which a
row of dilapidated cottages had been razed to the ground. The fog still
hung around them and seemed to bring with it a curious silence,
although the dying traffic from one of the main thoroughfares reached
them in muffled notes. Lutchester climbed to the top of a pile of
rubbish and then, turning around, held out his hand.

"Up here," he directed.

Graham struggled up until he stood by his companion's side. The latter
stood quite still, listening for a moment. Then he climbed a little
higher and swung around, holding out his hand once more.

"I'm on top of the wall," he said. "Come
on."

Graham's knees were shaking, but with Lutchester's help he staggered up
and reached his side. On the pavement below a man in chauffeur's livery
was standing, holding out his hands, and by the side of the curbstone a
closed car was waiting. Somehow or other the two reached the pavement.
Lutchester almost pushed his companion into the limousine and stepped
in after him. The chauffeur sprang to his seat and the car glided off.
Graham just realised that there was a woman by his side whose face was
vaguely familiar. Then the waves broke in upon his ears once more.

"I was right, then, it seems," Pamela observed approvingly. "You were
just the man for this little affair."

Lutchester sighed.

"Unfortunately," he confessed, "a messenger boy would have been as
effective. I stumbled over to the chapel--rubber shoes, you observe,"
he remarked, pointing downwards--"and soon discovered that blinds had
been let down all round and that there were people inside. There was
just a faint chink in one, and I caught a glimpse of several men, your
friend Oscar amongst them. Having," he went on, "an immense regard for
my personal safety, I was hesitating what means to adopt when the
lights were lowered, and it seemed to me that the men were
disappearing."

"Do go on," Pamela murmured. "This is most exciting."

"In a sense it was disappointing," Lutchester complained. "I had
pictured for myself a dramatic entrance ... a quiet turning of the key,
a soft approach--owing to my shoes," he reminded her--"a cough,
perhaps, or a breath ... discovery, me with a revolver in my hand
pointed to the arch-villain--'If you stir you're a dead man!' ...
Natural collapse of the villain. With my left hand I slash the bonds
which hold Graham, with my right I cover the miscreants. One of them,
perhaps, might creep behind me, and I hesitate. If I move my revolver
the other two will get the drop on me--I think that is the correct
expression? A wonderful moment, that, Miss Van Teyl!"

"But it didn't happen," she protested.

"Ah! I forgot that," he acknowledged. "Still, I was prepared, I had the
revolver all right. But as you say, it didn't happen. I made my way to
the chapel door, let myself in, found our friend lying in a
half-comatose state upon one of the blue plush Henry sofas, in the
shadow of a horrible deal pulpit. I gathered that he had been left
there to reflect upon his sins. There was a bottle of remarkably fine
brandy within reach, which I tested, and with which I dosed our friend
here. I then cut away his bonds, arm in arm we walked down the aisle, I
locked up the place, threw the key away, kicked my shins half-a-dozen
times crossing that disgusting little plot of land, climbed boldly to
the top of the wall, and behold!"

Pamela smiled upon him in congratulatory fashion.

"On the whole," she said, "I am quite glad that I telephoned to you."

"You showed a sound discretion," he admitted.

"If he had not been lame," she confessed, "I should have sent to
Captain Holderness."

"That would have been a great mistake," Lutchester assured her.
"Holderness is a good fellow but devoid of imagination. He is great on
constituted authority. He would have probably marched up with a squad
of heavy-footed policemen--and found nothing."

"Yet I must confess," Pamela persisted, with a frankness unaccountable
even to herself, "that if I could have thought of any one else I should
never have telephoned to you."

"And why not?"

"Because I should not have classified you as being of the adventurous
type," she declared.

Lutchester looked injured.

"After all," he protested, "that is not my fault. That is due to your
singular lack of perception. However, I am able to return the
compliment. I, for my part, should have thought that you were more
interested in the fashions than in paying exceedingly rash visits to
degenerate orientals and negroes."

"Perhaps some day," she remarked, "we may understand one another
better."

He met her gaze with a certain seriousness.

"I hope that we may," he said.

For some reason they were both silent for a moment. Her tone had
changed a little when she spoke again.

"You are sure," she asked, "that you do not mind my leaving the rest of
this affair in your hands? There are reasons, which I cannot tell you
of just now, which make me anxious not to appear in it at all."

"I accept the charge as a privilege," he assented. "We are within a few
yards of my rooms now. I promise you that I will look after Captain
Graham and advise him as to the proper course for him to pursue."

The car came to a standstill.

"This then," she said, holding out her hand, "will be good-by for the
present."

He held her fingers for a moment without reply. Quite suddenly she
decided that she liked him. Then he lifted Graham, who was half asleep,
half unconscious, to his feet, and assisted him from the car.

"Where shall I tell the man to go to?" he inquired.

"He knows," she answered with sudden taciturnity.

"Wherever it may be, then," he replied, "bon voyage!"




CHAPTER VI


It was about half-an-hour later when Sandy Graham opened his eyes and
began to feel the life once more warm in his veins. He was seated in
the most comfortable easy-chair of John Lutchester's bachelor
sitting-room. By his side was a coffee equipage and a decanter of
brandy. His head still throbbed, and his bones ached, but his mind was
beginning to grow clearer. Lutchester, who had been seated at the
writing table, swung round in his chair at the sound of his guest's
movement.

"Feeling better, eh?" he asked.

"I am all right now," was the somewhat shaky reply. "Got a head like a
turnip and a tongue like a lime-kiln, but I'm beginning--to feel
myself."

"How's your memory?"

"Hazy. Let me see.... My God, I've been robbed, haven't I!"

"So I imagine," Lutchester replied. "You rather asked for it, didn't
you?"

Graham moved uneasily in his place. He had suddenly the feeling of
being back at school--and in the presence of the headmaster.

"I suppose I did in a way," he admitted, "but at Henry's--why, I've
always looked upon the place as a club more than anything else."

"I am afraid that I can't agree with you there," Lutchester observed.
"I should consider Henry's a remarkably cosmopolitan restaurant, where
a man in your position should exercise more than even ordinary
restraint."

"I suppose I was wrong," Graham muttered, "but I had been working for
about ten hours on end, and then rushed up to London in the car to try
and keep my appointment with Holderness."

"Stop anywhere on the way?"

"We had a few drinks," Graham confessed. "I was so done up. Perhaps I
had more than I meant to. However, it's no use bothering about that
now. I've been robbed, and that's all there is about it. Could we get
on to Scotland Yard from here?"

"We could, but I don't think we will," Lutchester replied.

Graham was puzzled.

"Why not?" he demanded. "That formula was the most wonderful thing that
has ever been put together, and the whole thing's so simple. I've been
afraid every second that some one else might stumble upon it."

"It is without doubt a great loss," Lutchester admitted. "All the same,
I don't fancy that it's a Scotland Yard business exactly. Have you any
idea who robbed you?"

Graham paused to think. His eyes were still troubled and uncertain.

"It's coming back to me," he muttered. "I remember that beastly barn of
a chapel. There were Jules, and that musician fellow, and the big
American. He emptied my pockets ... Why, of course, I remember how
angry he was ... My pocketbook was gone! They left me alone to write
out the formula again, and then you came.... How on earth did you
tumble on to my being there, Lutchester?"

"It was Miss Pamela Van Teyl whom you must thank," Lutchester told him,
"not me. It seems she knew more about Henry's than any of us. She'd
come up against some of the crew in Berlin, and she guessed they were
holding you for that formula. She got the key out of one of those men
and then telephoned to me for my help."

"And I never even thanked her," Graham murmured weakly.

There was a moment's silence. The recovering man's consciousness of his
position and of events was evidently as yet incomplete. He sat up
suddenly in his chair, gripping the sides of it. His eyes were large
with reminiscent trouble.

"My pocketbook had gone when they searched me," he muttered.

"Are you sure that you had it with you when you came into Henry's?"
Lutchester inquired.

"Absolutely certain."

"Do you think you can remember now what happened when you went
upstairs?"

"I reached the lavatory all right--you were with me then, weren't you?"
Graham said reflectively. "I hung up my coat while I washed, but there
was no one else in the room. Then you went downstairs and I brushed my
hair and just stopped to light a cigarette. You know that on the
right-hand side of the landing there is a room where the musicians
change. Joseph, that black devil, was standing in the doorway. He
grinned as I came into sight. 'Lady wants to speak to you for a moment,
Captain Graham,' he said. Well, you know how harmless the fellow
looks--just a good-natured, smiling nigger. I never dreamed of anything
wrong. As a matter of fact, I thought that Peggy Vincent--that's a
young lady I often go to Henry's with--wanted to have a word with me
before I joined our party. I stepped inside the room, and that's just
about all I can remember. It must have been jolly quick. His arm shot
round my neck, the door was closed, and that other brute--Hassan, I
think it was--held something over my face."

"But that room was searched," Lutchester reminded him.

"Well I came to just a little," Graham explained, "I found that I was
in a sort of cupboard place, behind the lockers these fellows have for
their clothes. It opens with a spring lock, and you'd never notice it,
searching the room."

"Who was the first person you saw when you recovered consciousness?"

Graham's forehead was wrinkled in the effort to remember.

"I can't quite get hold of it," he confessed, "but I have a sort of
fancy I can't altogether get rid of that there was a woman about."

Lutchester looked at the end of the cigarette he had just lit.

"A woman?" he repeated. "That's queer."

"I can't remember anything definitely until I woke up in that chapel,"
Graham continued, "but when they searched me and found that the
pocketbook had gone, Fischer, the big American, muttered some woman's
name. I was queer just at the moment, but it sounded very much to me
like Miss Van Teyl's. He rang her up on the telephone."

"Did they suspect Miss Van Teyl, then, of having taken your
pocketbook?"

Graham shook his head.

"I lost the drift of things just then," he admitted. "She couldn't have
done, in any case. Forgive me, but aren't we wasting time, Mr.
Lutchester? We must do something. Couldn't you ring up Scotland Yard
now?"

"I certainly could," Lutchester assented, "but, as I told you just now,
I don't think that I will."

Graham stared at him.

"But why not?"

"For certain very definite reasons with which you needn't trouble
yourself just now," Lutchester pronounced. "The formula has gone,
without a doubt, but it certainly isn't in the hands of any of the
people at Henry's."

"But there's that American fellow--Fischer!" Graham exclaimed. "He was
the ringleader!"

"Just so," Lutchester murmured thoughtfully. "However, he hasn't got
the formula."

"But he planned the attack upon me," Graham protested. "He is an
enemy--a German--sheltering himself under his American naturalization.
Surely we're going for him?"

"He's a wrong 'un, of course," Lutchester admitted, "but he hasn't got
the formula."

"But we must do something!" Graham continued, his anger rising as his
strength returned. "Why, the place is a perfect den of conspirators! I
expect Ferrani himself is in it, and there's that other maitre d'hotel,
Jules, and those black beasts, Joseph and Hassan, besides Fischer. My
God, they shall pay for this!"

Lutchester nodded.

"I dare say they will," he admitted, "but not quite in the way you are
thinking of."

Graham half rose to his feet.

"Look here," he said, "I'm sane enough now, aren't I, and in my proper
senses? You are not going to suggest that we don't turn the police on
to that damned place?"

"I certainly am," was the brief reply.

Graham was aghast.

"What do you mean to do, then?"

"Leave them alone for the present. Not one of them has the formula. Not
one of them even knows where it is."

"But the attack upon me?"

"You asked for all you got," Lutchester told him curtly, "and perhaps a
little more."

The first tinge of colour came back to Graham's cheeks. His eyes
flashed with anger.

"Perhaps I did," he admitted, "but that doesn't alter the fact that I'm
going to have some of my own back out of them."

Lutchester crossed his legs and turned round in his chair. For the
first time he directly faced his visitor. His tone, though not
unkindly, was imperative.

"Young fellow," he said, "you'll have to listen to me about this."

A smouldering sense of revolt suddenly found words.

"Listen to you? What the devil have you got to do with it?" Graham
demanded.

"I hate to remind any one of an obligation," Lutchester answered, "but
I am under the impression that, together with Miss Van Teyl, of course,
I rescued you from an exceedingly inconvenient situation."

"I haven't had time yet to tell you how grateful I am," Graham said
awkwardly. "You were a brick, of course, and how you and Miss Van Teyl
tumbled on to the whole thing I can't imagine. But I don't understand
what you're getting at now. You can't suggest that I am to leave these
fellows alone and not give information to the police?"

"The character of the place," Lutchester assured him, "is already
perfectly well known to the heads of the police. The matter will be
dealt with, but not in the way you suggest. And so far as regards
Fischer, I do not wish him interfered with for the present."

"You do not wish him interfered with?" Graham repeated. "Where the
devil do you come in at all?"

"You can leave me out of the matter for the present. You want the
formula back, don't you?"

"My God, yes!" Graham muttered fervently. "It's all very well to give
one a pencil and a piece of paper and say 'Write it out,' but there are
calculations and proportions--"

"Precisely," Lutchester interrupted. "You want it back again. Why not
let Fischer do the business? He has an idea where it's gone. The thing
to do seems to me to follow him."

"To follow Fischer?" Graham repeated vaguely.

"Precisely. If he thinks the formula is in England, Fischer will stay
in England. If he thinks that it has gone abroad he will go abroad. If
we leave him free we can watch which he does."

Graham swallowed half a wineglassful of the brandy by his side. Then he
leaned forward.

"Look here," he said, "you'll forgive me if I repeat myself and ask you
once more--what the hell has all this got to do with you?"

"Just this much," Lutchester replied, "that I insist upon your taking
the course of action in this matter which I propose."

"You mean," Graham protested, working himself gradually into a state of
wrath, "that I am to go back to my rooms as though nothing had
happened, see Holderness and the others to-morrow, and not have a word
of explanation to offer? That I am to leave those blackguards at
Henry's to try their dirty games on some one else, and let Fischer, the
man who was fully inclined to become my murderer, go away unharmed? I
think not, Mr. Lutchester. I am much obliged for your help, but you are
talking piffle."

"What do you propose to do, then?"

"I am going round to Scotland Yard myself."

Lutchester rose to his feet.

"Stay where you are for a minute, please," he begged.

He passed into a smaller room, and Graham could hear faintly the sound
of the telephone. In a minute or two his host returned.

"Go in there and speak, Graham," he invited. "You will find some one
you know at the other end."

Graham did as he was bidden, and Lutchester closed the door after him.
For a few minutes the latter sat in his chair, smoking quietly, his
eyes fixed upon the fire. Then his unwilling guest reappeared. He came
into the room a little unsteadily and looked with new eyes at the man
who seemed so unaccountably to have taken over the control of his
affairs.

"I don't understand all this," he muttered. "Who the devil are you,
anyway, Lutchester?"

"A very ordinary person, I can assure you," was the quiet reply.
"However, you are satisfied, I suppose, that my advice is good?"

"Yes, I am satisfied," Graham answered nervously. "You know that--that
I'm under arrest?"

Lutchester nodded.

"Well, you're not asking for my sympathy, I suppose?" he observed
drily.

The young man flushed.

"I know that I behaved like a fool," he admitted. "All the same, I've
been working night and day for weeks on this problem. I haven't even
been up to town once. I must say I think they seem inclined to be a
little hard on me."

"No one is going to be in the least hard on you," Lutchester assured
him. "You have committed a frightful indiscretion, and all that is
asked of you now is to keep your mouth shut. If you do that, I think a
way will be found for you out of your troubles."

"But what is to become of me?" Graham demanded.

"I understand that you are to be taken to Northumberland to-morrow,"
Lutchester informed him. "There you will be allowed every facility for
fresh experiments. In the meantime, I have promised to give you a
shakedown here for the night. You will find a soldier on guard outside
your door, but you can treat him as your servant."

"You are very kind," Graham faltered, a little vaguely. "If only I
could understand--"

Lutchester rose to his feet. His manner became more serious, his tone
had in it a note of finality.

"Captain Graham," he interrupted, "don't try to understand. I will tell
you as much as this, if it helps you. Henry's Restaurant will be placed
under the closest surveillance, but we wish nothing disturbed there at
the moment until we have discovered the future plans of Mr. Oscar
Fischer."

"The big German-American," Graham muttered. "He's the man you ought to
get hold of."

"Some day I hope that we may," Lutchester declared. "For the moment,
however, we want him undisturbed. You would scarcely believe it,
perhaps, if I told you that the theft of your formulas is only a slight
thing compared to the bigger business that man has on hand. There is
something else at the back of his head which is worth heaven and earth
to us to understand. We want the formula and we shall have it, but more
than anything else in the world we want to know why Fischer has pledged
his word in Berlin to bring this war to an end within three months. We
have to find that out, and we are going to find it out--from him. You
see, I have treated you with confidence, Captain Graham. Now let me
show you to your room." Graham put his hand to his forehead.

"I feel as though this were some sort of nightmare," he muttered. "I've
known you for several months, Mr. Lutchester, and I have never heard
you say a serious word. You dance at Henry's; you made a good soldier,
they said, but you'd had enough of it in twelve months; you play
auction bridge in the afternoons; and you talk about the war as though
it were simply an irritating circumstance. And to-night--"

Lutchester threw open the door of his own bedroom and pointed to the
bathroom beyond.

"My man has put out everything he thinks you may want," he said. "Try
and get a good night's sleep. And, Graham."

"Yes?"

"Don't bother your head about me, and don't ask any more questions."




CHAPTER VII


The _Lapland_ was two days out from Tilbury before Pamela appeared on
deck, followed by her maid with an armful of cushions, and the deck
steward with her rugs. She had scarcely made herself comfortable in a
sunny corner when she was aware of the approach of a large, familiar
figure. Her astonishment was entirely genuine.

"Mr. Fischer!" she exclaimed. "Why, how on earth did you catch this
steamer? I thought you were coming on the Thursday boat?"

"Some inducement to change my mind," Mr. Fischer replied, drawing a
chair up to her side.

"Meaning me?"

"I guess that's so!"

"Of course, I'm exceedingly flattered," Pamela observed, "or rather I
should be if I believed you, but I don't see how you could leave a
supper-party at Henry's and go straight to Tilbury."

"Say, how did you know I was supping at Henry's?" he inquired.

"Because I was there for luncheon myself, as you know," she answered
carelessly, "and I heard you order your table for supper."

Mr. Fischer nodded reminiscently.

"I always wind up with a little supper at Henry's, on my last night in
London," he remarked. "It left me two hours to get down to Tilbury, but
it don't take me long to start for anywhere when I once make up my
mind. That's the American of us, I suppose. Besides, I never need much
in the way of luggage. I keep clothes over on the other side and
clothes in New York, and a grip always ready packed for a journey."

"You're so typical," she murmured, smiling.

"I don't know about that," he replied. "My business makes it necessary
for me to be always on the go. Have you heard from your brother
lately?"

Pamela shook her head.

"Jimmy is the most terrible correspondent," she complained. "I don't
think I've had any mail from him for two months."

"You didn't know that he and I were sharing rooms together, then, in
the Plaza Hotel, I suppose?"

Pamela turned her head a little and gazed at her companion in genuine
surprise.

"Sharing rooms in the Plaza Hotel?" she repeated.... "You and Jimmy?"

"I guess that's so," Mr. Fischer assented. "We were doing business
together one day, and the subject cropped up somehow or other. Your
brother was thinking of making a move, and I'd just been shown these
rooms, which were a trifle on the large side for me. I made him an
offer and he jumped at it."

"I hope you're not leading James into extravagant ways," she remarked
anxiously. "I loved his little apartment in Forty-Second Street and it
was so inexpensive."

"Your brother's share of these rooms isn't anything more than he can
afford," Mr. Fischer assured her. "That I can promise you. I guess his
firm is doing well just now. If they've many more clients like me they
are."

"It is very nice of you to put business in his way," Pamela said
thoughtfully. "I wonder why you do it, Mr. Fischer?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Well," Pamela went on, her eyes travelling out seaward for a moment,
"you seem to be one of those sort of men, Mr. Fischer, who never do
anything without an object."

"_Some_ powers of observation," he admitted blithely.

"You have an object in being kind to Jimmy, then?"

Mr. Fischer produced a cigar case and selected a cheroot.

"Mind my smoking?"

"Not in the least. The only time I mind things is when people don't
answer my questions."

"I was only kind of hesitating," Mr. Fischer went on, leaning back once
more in his chair. "You want the truth, don't you?"

"I never think anything else is worth while."

"In the first place, then," her companion began, "your brother belongs
to what I suppose is known as the exclusive set in New York. I am a
Westerner with few friends there. Through him I have obtained
introductions to several people whom it was interesting to me, from a
business point of view, to know."

"I see," Pamela murmured. "You are at least frank, Mr. Fischer."

"I am going to be more frank still," he promised her. "Then another
reason, of course, was because I liked him, and a third, which I am not
sure wasn't the chief of all, because he was your brother."

Pamela laughed gaily.

"Is that necessary?"

"Necessary or not, it's the truth," he assured her. "I am a man of
quick impressions and lasting ones."

"But we've never met except on a steamer," Pamela reminded him.

"I know it's the fashion," Mr. Fischer said, "to turn up one's nose at
steamer acquaintances. It isn't like that with me. You see, I don't
have as much opportunity of meeting folk as some others, perhaps. The
most interesting people I've known socially I've met on steamers. I sat
at your table, side by side with you, Miss Van Teyl, for seven days a
few months ago. I guess I'll remember those seven days as long as I
live."

Pamela turned her head and looked at him. The faintly derisive smile
died away from her lips. The man was in earnest. A certain curiosity
stole into her eyes as the seconds passed. She studied his hard, strong
face, with its great jaw and prominent forehead; the mouth, a little
too full, and belying the rest of his physiognomy, yet with its own
peculiar strength. He had taken off his spectacles, and it seemed to
her that the cold, flinty light of his eyes had caught for a moment
some touch of the softer blue of the sea or the sky. Seated, he lost
some of the awkwardness of his too great and ill-carried height. It
seemed to her that he was at least a person to be reckoned with, either
in friendship or enmity.

"Are you an American born, Mr. Fischer," she asked him.

He shook his head.

"I was born at Offenbach," he told her, "near Frankfurt. My father
brought me out to America when I was eleven years old."

"You must find the present condition of things a little trying for
you," she observed.

Oscar Fischer put on his glasses again. He did not answer for several
moments.

"That opens up a subject, Miss Van Teyl," he said, "which some day I
should like to discuss with you."

"Why not now?" she invited. "I feel much more inclined for conversation
than reading."

"Tell me, then, to begin with," he asked thoughtfully, "on which side
are your sympathies?"

"I try to do my duty as an American citizen," she replied promptly,
"and that is to have no sympathies. Our dear country has set the world
an example of what neutrality should be. I think it is the duty of us
Americans to try and bring ourselves into exactly the same line of
feeling."

He changed his position a little uneasily. His attitude became less of
a sprawl. His eyes were fixed upon her face.

"I fear," he said, "that we are going to begin by a disagreement. I do
not consider that America has realised in the least the duties of a
neutral nation."

"You must explain that at once, if you please, before we go any
further," Pamela insisted.

"Is this neutrality?" Fischer demanded, his rather harsh voice almost
raucous now with a touch of real feeling. "America ships daily millions
of dollars' worth of those things that make war possible, to France, to
Italy, above all to England. She keeps them supplied with ammunition,
clothing, scientific instruments, food--a dozen things which make war
easier. To Germany she sends nothing. Is that neutrality?"

"But America is perfectly willing to deal in the same way with
Germany," Pamela pointed out. "German agents can come and place their
orders and take away whatever they want. The market is as much open to
her as to the Allies."

Fischer was sitting bolt upright in his chair now. There was a little
spot of colour in his cheeks and his eyes flashed behind his
spectacles. He struck the side of the chair. He was very angry.

"That is Jesuitical," he declared. "It is perfectly well-known that
Germany is not in a position to fetch munitions from America.
Therefore, I say that there is no neutrality in supplying one side in
the war with goods which the other is unable to procure."

"Then you place upon America the onus of Germany's naval inferiority,"
Pamela remarked drily.

"Germany's maritime inferiority does not exist," Mr. Fischer protested.
"When the moment arrives that the High Seas fleet comes out for action
the world will know the truth."

"Then hadn't it better come," Pamela suggested, "and clear the ocean
for your commerce?"

"That isn't the point," Fischer insisted. "We have wandered from the
main issue. I say that America abandons its neutrality when it helps
the Allies to continue the war."

"I don't think you will find," Pamela replied, "that international law
prevents any neutral country from supplying either combatant with
munitions. If one country can fetch the things and the other can't,
that is the misfortune of the country that can't. For one moment look
at the matter from England's point of view. She has built up a mighty
navy to keep the seas clear for exactly this purpose--to continue her
commerce from abroad. Germany instead has built up a mighty army, with
which she has overrun Europe. Germany has had the advantage from her
army. Why shouldn't England have the advantage from her navy?"

"Let me ask you the question you asked me a few minutes ago," her
companion begged. "Were you born in America--or England?"

"I was born in America," Pamela told him; "so were my parents and my
grandparents. I claim to be American to the backbone. I claim even to
treat any sympathies I might have in this affair as prejudices, and not
even to allow them a single corner in my brain."

Mr. Fischer sat quite still for several moments. He was struggling very
hard to keep his temper. In the end he succeeded.

"We will not, then, pursue the subject of America's neutrality," he
said, "because it is obvious that we disagree fundamentally. But tell
me this, now, as an American and a patriot. Which do you think would be
better for America--That Germany and Austria won this war, or the
Allies?"

"Upon that question I have not altogether made up my mind," Pamela
confessed.

"Then there is room there for a discussion," Mr. Fischer pointed out
eagerly. "I should like to put my views before you on this matter."

"And I should love to hear them," Pamela replied, "but I feel just now
as though we had talked enough politics. Do you know that I came up on
deck in a state of great agitation?"

"Submarine alarms from the stewardess?" Mr. Fischer suggested.

"I am not afraid of submarines, but I have a most profound dislike for
thieves," Pamela declared.

"You have not had anything stolen?" he asked quickly.

"I have not," Pamela replied, "but the only reason seems to be that I
have nothing worth stealing. When I got back from luncheon this
afternoon I found that my stateroom had been systematically searched."

She turned her head a little lazily and looked at her neighbour. His
expression was entirely sympathetic.

"Your jewellery?"

"Deposited with the purser."

"I congratulate you," he said.

"Nothing has been stolen," she observed, "but one hates the feeling of
insecurity, all the same. Both my steward and stewardess are old
friends. It must have been a very clever person who found his way into
my room."

"A very clever person," Mr. Fischer objected, "would have known that
you had deposited your jewels with the purser."

"If it was my jewels of which they were in search," Pamela murmured.
"By the bye, do you remember all that fuss about the disappearance of a
young soldier that morning at Henry's?"

Fischer nodded.

"I heard something about it," he confessed. "They were talking about it
at dinner-time."

"I had an idea that you might be interested," Pamela went on. "He was
rather a foolish young man. He came into the restaurant telling every
one at the top of his voice that he had made a great discovery! Even in
London, which is, I should think, the most prosaic city in the world,
there must be people who are on the lookout to pick up war secrets."

"Even in London, as you remark," Fischer assented.

"You didn't hear the end of the affair, I suppose?" she asked him.

The steward had arrived with afternoon tea. Fischer threw into the sea
the cigar which he had been smoking.

"I do not think," he said, "that the end has been reached yet."

Pamela sighed.

"Les oreilles ennemies!" she quoted. "I suppose one has to be careful
everywhere."




CHAPTER VIII


It was one evening towards the end of the voyage, and about an hour
after dinner. A huge form loomed out of the darkness, continuing its
steady promenade along the unlit portion of the deck. Pamela, moved by
some caprice, abandoned her caution of the last few days and called
out.

"Mr. Fischer!"

He stopped short. The sparks flew from the red end of his cigar, which
he tossed into the sea. He hastened towards her.

"Miss Van Teyl?" he replied, a little hesitatingly.

"How clever of you to know my voice!" she observed. "I am in the humour
to talk. Will you sit down, please?"

Mr. Fischer humbly drew a chair to her side.

"I had an idea," he said, "that you had been avoiding me the last two
or three days."

"I have," she admitted.

"Have I offended you, then?"

"Scarcely that," she replied, "only, you see, it seemed waste of time
to talk to you with the foils on, and a little dangerous, perhaps, to
talk to you with them off."

His face reflected his admiration.

"Miss Van Teyl," he declared, "you are quite a wonderful person. I have
never believed very much in women before. Perhaps that is the reason
why I have never married."

"Dear me, are you a woman-hater?" she asked.

He looked at her steadfastly.

"I have made use of women as playthings," he confessed. "Until I met
you I never thought of them as companions, as partners."

She laughed at him through the darkness, and at the sound of her laugh
his eyes glowed.

"Really, I am very much flattered," she said. "You give me credit for
intelligence, then?"

"I give you credit for every gift a woman should have," he answered
enthusiastically. "I recognise in you the woman I have sometimes
dreamed of."

Again she laughed.

"Don't tell me, Mr. Fischer," she protested, "that ever in your
practical life you have spent a single moment in dreams?"

"I have spent many," he assured her, "but they have all been since I
knew you."

Pamela sighed.

"I have never been through a voyage," she observed, "without a love
affair. Still, I never suspected you, Mr. Fischer."

"You suspected me, perhaps, of other things."

She nodded.

"I am full of suspicions about you," she admitted. "I am not going to
tell you what they are, of course."

"There is one thing of which I am guilty," he confessed. "I should like
to tell you about it right now."

"Could I guess it?"

"You're clever enough."

"You like me, don't you, Mr. Fischer?"

"Better than any woman in the world," he answered promptly. "And my
confession is--well, just that. Will you marry me?"

Pamela shook her head.

"Quite early in life," she confided, "I made up my mind that I would
never give a definite answer to any one who proposed to me on a
steamer. I suppose it's the wind, or is it the stars, or the silence,
or what? I have known the sanest of men, even like you, Mr. Fischer,
become quite maudlin."

"I am brimful of common sense at the present moment," he declared
earnestly. "You and I could do great things together, if only I could
get you to look at one certain matter from my point of view; to see it
as I see it."

"A political matter?" she inquired naively.

"I want to try and persuade you," he confessed, "that America has
everything in the world to gain from Germany's success, and everything
to lose if the Allies should triumph in this war and Great Britain
should continue her tyranny of the seas."

"It's an extraordinarily interesting subject," Pamela admitted.

"It is almost as absorbing," he declared, "as the other matter which
just now lies even nearer to my heart."

She withdrew her fingers from his sudden clutch.

"Mr. Fischer," she told him, "what I said just now was quite final. I
will not be made love to on a steamer."

"When we land," he continued eagerly, "you will be coming to see your
brother, won't you?"

She nodded.

"Of course! I am coming to the Plaza Hotel. That, I suppose, is good
news for you, Mr. Fischer."

"Of course it is," he answered, "but why do you say so?"

"It will give you so many opportunities," she murmured.

"Of seeing you?"

She shook her head.

"Of searching my belongings."

There was a moment's silence. She heard his quick breath through the
darkness. His voice assumed its harsher tone.

"You believe that it was I who searched your stateroom?"

"I am sure that it was you, or some one acting for you."

"What is it, then, of which I am in search?" he demanded.

"Captain Graham's formula," she replied. "I think you want that a good
deal more than you want me."

"You have it then?" he asked fiercely.

She sighed.

"You jump so to conclusions. I didn't say so."

"You went up the stairs ... you were the only person who went up just
at that one psychological moment! He had his pocketbook with him when
he came in--he told Holderness so."

"And when you searched him it was gone," she remarked calmly. "Dear
me!"

"How do you know that I searched him?" Fischer demanded.

"How dare you ask me to give away my secrets?" she replied.

"Listen," he began, striving with an almost painful effort to keep his
voice down to the level of a whisper, "you and I together, we could do
the most marvellous things. I could let you into all my schemes. They
are great. They will be successful. After the war is over--"

He held his breath for a moment. The tramp of approaching footsteps
warned him of the coming of an intruder. The Captain came to a
standstill before their chairs and saluted.

"Miss Van Teyl," he said, "there will be a mutiny in the saloon if you
don't come down and sing."

She almost sprang to her feet. The ship was rolling a little, and she
laid her fingers upon his arm.

"I meant to come long ago," she declared, "but Mr. Fischer has been so
interesting. You will finish telling me your experiences another time,
won't you?" she called out over her shoulder. "There is so much that I
still want to hear."

Fischer's reply was almost ungracious. He watched their departure in
silence, and afterwards leaned further back in his chair. With long,
nervous fingers he drew a black cigar from his case and lit it. Then he
folded his arms. For more than half an hour he sat there motionless,
smoking furiously. He looked out into the chaos of the windy darkness,
he heard voices riding upon the seas, shrieking and calling to him,
voices to which he had been deaf too long. The burden of these later
years of turbulent, brazen, selfish struggling, rolled back. He had
been a sentimentalist once, a willing seeker after things which seemed
to have passed him by. At his age, he told himself, a man should still
find more than one place in the world.




CHAPTER IX


James Van Teyl glanced curiously at the small, dark figure standing
patiently before him, and then back again at the wireless cable which
he held in his fingers. He was just back from a tiring day in Wall
Street, and was reclining in the most comfortable easy-chair of his
Hotel Plaza sitting-room.

"Gee!" he murmured. "This beats me. The last thing I should have
thought we wanted here was a valet. The fellow who looks after this
suite has scarcely anything else to do. What did you say your name
was?"

"Nikasti, sir."

Van Teyl carefully reconsidered the cable. It certainly seemed to leave
no room for misunderstanding.

Please engage for our service, as valet, Nikasti. See that he enters on
his duties at once. Hope land this evening. Your sister on board sends
love.--F.

"Well that seems clear enough," the young man muttered, thrusting the
form into his waistcoat pocket. "You're here to stay, I guess, Nikasti?
I see you've brought your kit along."

"In case you decided to engage me, sir," the man replied.

"Oh, you are engaged right enough," Van Teyl assured him. "You'd better
make the best job you can of putting out my evening clothes. If you
ring for the floor valet, he'll help you. The bedrooms are through that
door."

"Very good, sir!"

"I am going down to the barber's now," Van Teyl continued, rising to
his feet. "Just remember this, Nikasti--what a name, by the bye!"

"I could be called Kato," the man suggested.

"Kato for me all the time," his prospective employer agreed. "Well,
listen. My sister, Miss Van Teyl, arrives from Europe on the _Lapland_
this evening. If she comes in or rings up, say I'm here and I want to
see her at once. You understand?"

"I understand, sir."

Van Teyl strolled out, and Kato disappeared into the inner room. The
floor valet, dressed in the dark blue livery of the hotel, was already
laying out his master's dinner clothes. He eyed the intruder a little
truculently.

"Who are you, anyway?" he inquired.

"My name is Nikasti," was the quiet reply. "Mr. Van Teyl has engaged me
as his valet, to wait upon him and Mr. Fischer."

The man laid down the shirt into which he was fixing the studs.

"That's some news," he remarked bitterly.

"To wait on Mr. Van Teyl and Mr. Fischer, eh? What the hell do they
want you for?"

Nikasti shook his head slowly. He was very small, and his dark eyes
seemed filled with melancholy.

"It is not for a very long time," he ventured.

"Long enough to do me out of my five dollars' tip every week," the man
grumbled. "I'm a married man, too, and a good American. Blast you
fellows, coming and taking our jobs away! Can't think what they let you
into the country for."

"I am sorry," Nikasti murmured.

"Your sorrow don't bring me in my five dollars," the valet retorted
bitterly. "There's only two suites on this floor to work for, anyway,
and this is the only one worth a cent."

"I am taking the situation," the other explained, "for the sake of
experience. I do not wish to rob you of your earnings. I will pay you
the five dollars a week while I stay here. You shall help me with the
work."

"That's a deal, my little yellow-skinned kid," the valet agreed in a
tone of relief. "I'll show you where the things are kept."

His new coadjutor bowed.

"The telephone is ringing in the master's room," he observed. "You
shall remain here, and I will answer it."

"That goes, Jappy," the man acquiesced. "If it's a young lady take her
name, but don't say that Mr. Van Teyl's about. Forward young baggages
some of them are."

Nikasti glided from the room, closed the door, and approached the
telephone receiver.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "these are the rooms of Mr. Van Teyl... No,
madam, Mr. Van Teyl is not in at present."

There was a moment's pause. Nikasti's face was impenetrable as he
listened, but his eyes glowed.

"Yes, I understand, madam," he said softly. "You are Miss Van Teyl, and
you wish to speak to your brother. The moment Mr. Van Teyl returns I
will ring you up or fetch you."

He replaced the receiver upon its hook, and returned to the bedroom.
For some little time he was initiated into the mysteries of his new
master's studs, boots and shoes, and general taste in wearing apparel.
Then the latter entered the sitting-room, and Nikasti obeyed his
summons.

"Anyone called me up?" he inquired.

"No one, sir."

Van Teyl glanced at the clock in an undecided manner.

"I'll change right away," he decided. "Just set things to rights in
here, fill my cigarette case, and hang round by the telephone."

Nikasti bowed, and the young man disappeared into the inner room. His
new attendant waited until the door was closed. Then he removed the
receiver from its hook, laid it upon the table, and moved stealthily
towards the open fireplace. For several moments he remained in an
attitude of listening, then with quick, lithe fingers he drew from his
pocket a cable dispatch, reread it with an air of complete absorption,
and committed it to the flames. He watched it burn, and turned away
from the contemplation of its grey ashes with a sigh of content.
Suddenly he started. The door of the sitting-room had been opened and
closed. A tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, a
long travelling coat and a Homburg hat, was standing watching him.
Nikasti was only momentarily disturbed. His look of gentle inquiry was
perfect.

"You wish to see my master--Mr. Van Teyl?" he asked.

"Where is he?" Fischer demanded.

"He is dressing in the next apartment. I will take him your name."

Fischer threw his coat and hat upon the table.

"That'll do directly," he replied. "So you're Nikasti?"

They looked at one another for a moment. The face of the Japanese was
smooth, bland, and imperturbable. His eyes were innocent even of any
question. Fischer's forehead was wrinkled, and his brows drawn close
together.

"I am Nikasti," the other acknowledged--"Kato Nikasti. Mr. Van Teyl has
just engaged me as his valet."

"You can take off the gloves," Fischer told him. "I am Oscar Fischer."

"Oscar Fischer," Nikasti repeated.

"Yes! ... Burning something when I came in weren't you? Looked like a
cable, eh?"

"A dispatch from London," Nikasti confided.

"Nothing that would interest me, eh?"

"It was a family message," was the calm response. "It did not concern
the affair which is between us."

"How came you to speak English like this?" Fischer inquired.

"I was at Oxford University for two years," Nikasti told him, "and in
the Embassy at London for five more."

"Before you took up your present job, eh?"

Nikasti assented silently. Fischer glanced around as though to make
sure that they were still alone.

"I have the communication with me," he announced, "which we are to
discuss. The terms of our proposal are clearly set out, and they are
signed by the Highest of all himself. The letter embodying them was
handed to me three weeks ago to-day in Berlin. Have you been to
Washington?"

Nikasti shook his head.

"I do not go to Washington," he said. "You will understand that
diplomatically, as you would put it, I do not exist. Neither is it
necessary. I am here to listen."

Fischer nodded.

"There need be very little delay, then," he observed, "before we get to
work."

Nikasti bowed and raised his forefinger in warning.

"I think," he whispered, "that Mr. Van Teyl has finished dressing."




CHAPTER X


Van Teyl, as he hastened forward to meet his friend, presented at first
sight a very good type of the well-groomed, athletic young American. He
was over six feet tall, with smooth, dark hair brushed back from his
forehead, a strong, clean-shaven face and good features. Only, as he
drew nearer, there was evident a slight, unnatural quivering at the
corner of his lips. The cordiality of his greeting, too, was a little
overdone.

"Welcome home, Fischer! Why, man, you're looking fine. Had a pleasant
voyage?"

"Storms for the first few days--after that all right," Fischer replied.

"Any submarines?"

"Not a sight of one. Seen your sister yet?"

"Not yet. I've been waiting about for a telephone message. She hadn't
arrived, a few minutes ago."

Fischer frowned.

"I want us three to meet--you and she and I--the first moment she sets
foot in the hotel," he declared.

"What's the hurry?" Van Teyl demanded. "You must have seen plenty of
her the last ten days."

"That," Fischer insisted, "was a different matter. See here, Jimmy,
I'll be frank with you."

He walked to the door of the bedroom, opened it, and looked inside. Its
sole occupant was Nikasti, who was at the far end, putting away some
clothes. Fischer closed the door firmly and returned.

"I want you to understand this, James," he began. "Your sister is
meddling in certain things she'd best leave alone."

Van Teyl lit a cigarette.

"No use talking to me," he observed. "Pamela's her own mistress, and
she's gone her own way ever since she came of age."

"She's got to quit," Fischer pronounced. "That's all there is about it.
You and I will have to talk this out. Where are you dining?"

"Downstairs," Van Teyl replied gloomily. "I was thinking of waiting for
Pamela."

"You leave word to have your people let you know directly she arrives,"
Fischer advised, "and come along with me."

Van Teyl allowed himself to be led towards the door. Nikasti, with a
due sense of his new duties, glided past them, rang for the lift, and
watched them descend. Fischer turned at once towards the dining room.

"Thank God we're in a civilised country," he observed, "and that I
don't have to change when I don't want to!"

They found a quiet table, and Fischer, displaying much interest in the
menu, ordered a somewhat extensive dinner.

"Grapefruit and Maryland chicken are worth coming back to," he
declared. "Now see here, James, let's get to business. You've got to
help me with your sister."

"But how?" Van Teyl demanded. "Pamela and I are good pals, of course,
but she has a will of her own in all she does, and I don't fancy that
anything I could say would influence her very much."

"There are two things about your sister," Fischer continued. "The first
is that she's got to quit this secret service business she's got
herself mixed up in."

"Don't talk nonsense!" Van Teyl exclaimed. "Pamela doesn't care a fig
about politics."

Fischer grunted scornfully.

"You don't know much about your sister, young fellow," he said.
"Internal politics over here may not interest her a cent, but she's
crazy about America as a country, and she's shrewd enough to see things
coming that a great many of you over here aren't looking for. Anyway,
she came bang up against me in a little scheme I had on the night
before I left Europe, and somewhere about her she's got concealed a
document which I'd gladly buy for a quarter of a million dollars."

Van Teyl drank off his second cocktail.

"Some money!" he observed. "How did she come by the prize?"

"Played up for it, just as I did," Fischer replied. "She was clever
enough to make use of my scaffolding, and got up the ladder first. I'm
not squealing, but I've got to have that document, whatever it costs
me."

Van Teyl was silent for a moment. There was an undercurrent of
something threatening in his companion's manner, of which he had taken
note.

"And the second thing you mentioned?" he asked. "What is that?"

Fischer, as though to give due emphasis to his statement, indulged in a
brief pause. Then he leaned a little forward and spoke very slowly and
very forcibly.

"I want to marry her," he declared.

Van Teyl learned back in his chair and gazed at his vis-a-vis in blank
astonishment.

"You must be a damned fool, Fischer!" he exclaimed.

"You think so?" was the unruffled reply. "I wonder why?"

"I'll tell you why, if you want to know," Van Teyl continued bluntly.
"I know of four of the richest and best-looking young men in America,
two ambassadors, an English peer, and an Italian prince, who have
proposed to Pamela during the last twelve months alone. She refused
every one of them."

"Well," Fischer remarked, "she must marry some time."

Van Teyl looked at him insolently.

"I shouldn't think you'd have a dog's chance," he pronounced.

There was a little glitter behind Fischer's spectacles.

"Up till now," he admitted smoothly, "I have not been fortunate. I must
confess, however, that I was hoping for your good offices."

"Pamela wouldn't take the slightest notice of anything I might say,"
Van Teyl declared. "Besides, I should hate you to marry her."

"A little blunt, are you not, my young friend?" Fischer remarked
amiably. "Still, to continue, there is also the matter of that
document. I must confess that I exercised all my ingenuity to obtain
possession of it on the steamer."

"You would!" Van Teyl muttered.

"Your sister, however," Fischer continued, "was wise enough to have it
locked up in the purser's safe the moment she set foot upon the
steamer. She gave me the slip when she got it back, and eluded me,
somehow, on the quay. She will scarcely have had time to part with it
yet, though. When she arrives here to-night, it will in all probability
be in her possession."

"Well?" Van Teyl demanded. "You don't suggest that I should rob her of
it, I suppose?"

"Not at all," Fischer replied. "On the other hand, you might very well
induce her to give it up voluntarily, or at least to treat with me."

"You don't know Pamela," was Van Teyl's curt reply.

"I know her sufficiently," Fischer went on, leaning over the table, "to
believe that she would sacrifice a great deal to save her brother from
Sing Sing."

Van Teyl took the thrust badly. He started as though he had been
stabbed, and his face became almost ghastly in its pallor. He tossed
off a glass of wine hastily.

"Just what do you mean by that?" he asked thickly.

"Are you prepared," Fischer continued, "to have me visit your office
to-morrow morning and examine my accounts and securities in the
presence of your partners?"

"Why not?" Van Teyl faltered. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, James Van Teyl," his companion declared, "that I should find
you a matter of a hundred thousand dollars short. I mean that you've
realised on some of my securities, gambled on your own account with the
proceeds, and lost. You did this as regards one stock at least, with a
forged transfer, which I hold."

Van Teyl looked almost piteously around. Life seemed suddenly to have
become an unreal thing--the crowds of well-dressed diners, the gentle
splashing of the water from the fountains in the winter garden, the
distant murmuring of music from behind the canopy of palms. So this was
the end of it! All that week he had hoped against hope. He had been
told of a sure thing. Next week he had meant to have a great gamble.
Everything was to have gone his way, after all. And now it was too
late. Fischer knew, and Fischer was a cruel man!...

The unnatural silence came to an end. Only Fischer's voice seemed to
come from a long way off.

"Drink your wine, James Van Teyl," he advised, "and listen to me.
You've been under obligations to me from the start. I meant you to be.
I brought a great business to your firm, and I insisted upon having you
interested. I had a motive, as I have for most things I do. You are
well placed socially in New York, and I am not. You are also above
suspicion, which I am not. It suited me to take this suite in the
Plaza, nominally in our joint names, but to pay the whole account
myself. It suited me because I required the shelter of your social
position. You understand?"

"I always understand," Van Teyl muttered.

"Just so. Only, whereas you simply thought me a snob, I had in reality
a different and very definite purpose. We come now, however, to your
present obligation to me. I can, if I choose, tear up your forged
transfer, submit to the loss of my money, and leave you secure. I shall
do so if you are able to induce your sister to hand over to me those
few lines of writing--to which, believe me, she has no earthly
right--and to accept me as a prospective suitor."

Van Teyl was drinking steadily now, but every mouthful of food seemed
almost to choke him. Red-eyed and defiant, he faced his torturer.

"You're talking rot!" he declared. "Pamela wouldn't marry you if you
were the last man on earth, and if she's got anything she wants to
keep, she'll keep it."

"And see her brother disgraced," Fischer reminded him, "tried at the
Criminal Court for theft and sent to Sing Sing? It's a good name in New
York, yours, you know. The Van Teyls have held up their heads high for
more than one generation. Your sister will not fancy seeing it dragged
down into the mire."

For a single moment the young man seemed about to throw himself upon
his companion, Fischer, perfectly unmoved, watched him, nevertheless,
like a cat.

"Better sit tight," he enjoined. "Drop it now or people will be
watching us. I have ordered some of the old brandy. A liqueur or two
will steady you, perhaps. Afterwards we will go upstairs and take your
sister into our confidence."

Van Teyl nodded.

"Very well," he agreed hoarsely. "We'll hear what Pamela has to say."




CHAPTER XI


Nikasti, with a low bow, watched the disappearance of the lift into
which his two new masters, James Van Teyl and Oscar Fischer, had
stepped. He waited until the indicator registered its safe arrival on
the ground floor. Then he slowly retraced his steps along the corridor,
entered the sitting-room, and took up the telephone receiver, which was
still lying upon the table.

"Will you give me number 77," he asked--"Miss Van Teyl's suite?"

There was a moment's silence--then a voice at the other end to which he
made obeisance.

"It is Miss Van Teyl who speaks? I am Mr. Van Teyl's valet. Mr. Van
Teyl is here now and will be glad if you will come in."

He replaced the receiver, listened and waited. In a few moments there
was the sound of a light footstep outside. The door was opened and
Pamela entered. She was still wearing the grey tailor-made costume in
which she had left the steamer.

"Why, where is Mr. Van Teyl?" she asked, looking around the room. "I
have been ringing up for the last ten minutes and couldn't get any
answer. I did not realise that it was the next suite."

"Mr. Van Teyl is close at hand, madam," Nikasti replied. "If you will
kindly be seated, I will fetch him."

"How long have you been valet here?" Pamela asked curiously.

"For a few hours only, madam," was the grave reply. "If you will be so
good as to wait."

He bowed low and left the room. Pamela took up an evening paper and for
a few minutes buried herself in its contents. Then suddenly she held it
away from her and listened. A queer and unaccountable impulse inspired
her with a certain mistrust. There was no sound of movement in the
adjoining bedchamber, nor any sign of her brother's presence. She
opened the door and peered in. It was empty and in darkness. Then,
moved by that same unaccountable impulse, she crossed the room and
listened at the door which led into her own suite, and which she
perceived was bolted on this side as well as her own. She listened at
first idly, afterwards breathlessly. In a few moments she was convinced
that her senses were not playing her false. Some one was moving
stealthily about in her room, the key to which was even at that moment
in her hand. She hastened to the door, to be confronted by another
surprise. The handle turned but the door refused to open. She was
locked in.

Pamela was both generous and insistent in the matter of bells. She
found four, and she rang them all together. The consequences were
speedy, and in their way satisfactory. Nikasti himself, a breathless
chambermaid, a hurt but dignified waiter, and the floor valet, who had
not even stopped to put on his coat, entered together. They seemed a
little stupefied at finding Pamela alone and no sign of any
disturbance.

"Why was I locked in here?" Pamela demanded indignantly, taking them
en bloc.

There was a little chorus of non-comprehension. Nikasti stepped
forward, waved to the others to be silent, and bowed almost to the
ground.

"It was a mistake easily to be understood, madam," he explained. "The
handle is a little stiff, perhaps, but the door was not locked. We all
reached here together, I myself barely a yard in advance. No key was
used--and behold!"

Pamela was disposed to argue, but a moment's reflection induced her to
change her mind. This falsehood of Nikasti's was at least interesting.
She waved the hotel servants away.

"I am sorry to have troubled you," she said. "I will remember it when I
pay my bill."

They took their leave, Nikasti showing them out. When the last had
departed, he turned back to the centre table, from the other side of
which Pamela was watching him curiously.

"I cannot imagine," she remarked, "how I could have made such a mistake
about the door. I tried it twice or three times and it certainly seemed
to me to be locked."

Nikasti moved a step nearer towards her. Something of the servility of
his manner had gone. For the first time she looked at him closely,
appreciated the tense immobility of his features, the still,
penetrating light of his cold eyes. A queer premonition of trouble for
a moment unsteadied her.

"There was no mistake," he said softly. "The door was locked."

Even then she did not fully understand the position. She leaned a
little towards him.

"It was locked?" she repeated.

"I locked it," he told her. "It is locked now, securely. I have been
searching in your room for something which I did not find. I think that
you had better give it to me. It will save trouble."

"Are you mad?" she demanded breathlessly.

"Do I seem so?" he replied. "There is no person more sane than I. I
require from you the formula of the new explosive, which you stole in
Henry's restaurant eleven days ago."

The sense of mystery passed. It was simply trouble of the ordinary sort
from an unexpected source.

"Dear me!" she murmured. "Every one seems interested in my little
adventure. How did you hear about it?"

"I destroyed the cable telling me of all that happened only a few
minutes ago," he explained. "It was the foolish talk of the young
inventor which gave his secret to the world to scramble for."

"It was very clever of your informant," she remarked, "to suggest that
I was the fortunate thief. Why not Oscar Fischer? It was his plot, not
mine."

The eyes of the little Japanese seemed suddenly to narrow. He realised
quite well that she was talking simply to gain time.

"Madam," he insisted, "the formula. It is for my country, and for my
country I would risk much."

"I do not doubt it," she replied; "but if I hold it, I hold it for my
country, too, and there is nothing you would risk for Japan from which
I should shrink for America."

He laid his hands upon the table. She turned her ring and clenched her
hand. She could see his spring coming, realised in those few seconds
that here was an opponent of more desperate and subtle calibre than
Joseph. Whether her wits might have failed her, fate remained her
friend. There was a knock at the door.

"You hear?" she cried breathlessly. "There is some one there. Shall I
call out?"

His hands and knee were gone from the table. He was once more his old
self, so completely the servant that for a moment even Pamela was
puzzled. It seemed as though the events of the last few seconds might
have been part of a disordered dream. Nikasti played to the cue of her
fevered question and entirely ignored them. He opened the door with a
respectful flourish--and John Lutchester walked in.




CHAPTER XII


Pamela's first shock of surprise did not readily pass. In the first
place, John Lutchester's appearance in America at all was entirely
unexpected. In the second, by what possible means could he have arrived
at this precise and psychological moment?

"You!" she exclaimed, a little helplessly. "Mr. Lutchester!"

He smiled as he shook hands. Nikasti had slipped noiselessly from the
room. Pamela made no effort to detain him. She had a curious feeling
that the things which had passed between them concerned their two
selves only. So had no desire whatever to hand him over to retributive
justice.

"You are surprised," he observed. "So far as my presence here is
concerned, I knew quite well that I was coming some time ago, but it
was one of those matters, you understand, Miss Van Teyl, that one is
scarcely at liberty to talk about. I am here in connection with my
work."

"Your work," she repeated weakly. "I thought that you were in the
Ministry of Munitions?"

"Precisely," he admitted. "I have a travelling inspectorship. You see,
I don't mind telling you this, but it is just as well, if you will
forgive my mentioning it, Miss Van Teyl, that these things are not
spoken of to any one. My business over here is supposed to be secret. I
am going round some of the factories from which we are drawing
supplies."

She drew a long breath and began to feel a little more like herself.

"Well, after this," she declared, "I shall be surprised at nothing. I
have had one shock already this evening, and you are the second."

"The first, I trust, was not disagreeable?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Without flattering you," she answered, "I think I could say that I
prefer the second."

"I had an idea," Lutchester remarked diffidently, "that my arrival
seemed either opportune or inopportune--I could not quite tell which.
Were you in any way troubled or embarrassed by the presence of the
little Japanese gentleman?"

"Of course not," she replied. "Why, he is Jimmy's valet."

"How absurd of me!" Lutchester murmured. "By the bye, if Jimmy is your
brother--Mr. Van Teyl--I have a letter to him from a pal in town--Dicky
Green. It was to present it that I found my way up here this evening. I
was told that he might put me in the way of a little golf during my
spare time over here."

He produced the note and laid it upon the table. Pamela glanced at it
and then at Lutchester. He was carefully dressed in dinner clothes,
black tie and white waistcoat. He was, as usual, perfectly groomed and
immaculate. He had what she could only describe to herself as an
everyday air about him. He seemed entirely free from any mental
pressure or the wear and tear of great events.

"Golf?" she repeated wonderingly. "You expect to have a little spare
time, then?"

"Well, I hope so," Lutchester replied. "One must have exercise. By the
bye," he went on, "is your brother in, do you happen to know? Perhaps
it would be more convenient if I came round in the morning? I am
staying in the hotel."

"Oh, for goodness sake, don't go away," she begged. "Jimmy will be here
presently, for certain. To tell you the truth, we have been rather
playing hide-and-seek this evening, but it hasn't been altogether his
fault. Please sit down over there--you will find cigarettes on the
sideboard--and talk to me."

"Delighted," he agreed, taking the chair opposite to her. "I suppose
you want to know what became of poor Graham?"

A sudden bewilderment appeared in her face. She leaned towards him. Her
forehead was knitted, her eyes puzzled. There was a new problem to be
solved.

"Why, Mr. Lutchester," she demanded, "how on earth did you get here?"

"Across the Atlantic," he replied amiably. "Bit too far the other way
round."

"Yes, but what on?" she persisted. "I went straight on to the _Lapland_
after we parted last week, and only arrived here an hour or so ago.
There was no other passenger steamer sailing for three days."

"I was a stowaway," he told her confidentially--"helped to shovel coals
all the way over."

"Don't talk nonsense!" she protested a little sharply. "I dislike
mysteries. Look at you! A stowaway, indeed! Tell me the truth
at once?"

He leaned forward in his chair towards her. An ingenuous smile parted
his lips. He had the air of a schoolboy repeating a mischievous secret.

"The fact is, Miss Van Teyl," he confided, "I don't want it talked
about, you know, but I had a joy ride over."

"A what?"

"A joy ride," he repeated. "A cousin of mine is in command of a
destroyer, and she was under orders to sail for New York. He hadn't the
slightest right, really, to bring a passenger, as she was coming over
on a special mission, but I had word about the trip over here, so I
slipped on board late one night--not a word to any one, you
understand--and--well, here I am. A more awful voyage," he went on
impressively, "you couldn't imagine. I was sore all over within
twenty-four hours of starting. There's practically no deck on those
things, you know, for sitting out or anything of that sort. The British
Navy's nowhere for comfort, I can tell you. The biggest liner for me,
going back!"

Pamela was still a little dazed. Lutchester's story did not sound in
the least convincing. For the moment, however, she accepted his account
of himself.

"Tell me now," she begged, "about Captain Graham?"

"You haven't heard, then?"

"I have heard nothing. How should I hear?"

"I took him straight back to my rooms after we left you," Lutchester
began. "He was in an awful state of nerves and drugs and drink. Then I
put him to bed as soon as I could, and rang up a pal of mine at the War
Office to take him in hand."

"Do you believe," she asked curiously, "that he had really been robbed
of his formula?"

"Those amiable people who were interviewing him in the chapel seemed to
think so," Lutchester observed.

"But you! What do you think?" she persisted. He smiled in superior
fashion.

"I find it rather hard to bring myself to believe that any one would
take the trouble," he confided. "I have heard it said in my department
that there have been thirty-one new explosives invented since the
beginning of the war. Two of them only are in use, and they're not much
better than the old stuff."

Pamela nodded understandingly.

"All the same," she remarked, "I am not at all sure that was the case
with Captain Graham's invention. There were rumours for days before
that something wonderful was happening on Salisbury Plain. They had to
cover up whole acres of ground after his last experiments, and a man
who was down there told me that it seemed just as though the life had
been sucked out of it."

"Where did you collect all this information?" her visitor inquired.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"One hears everything in London."

Lutchester was sitting with his finger-tips pressed together. For a
moment his attention seemed fixed upon them.

"There are things," he said, "which one hears, too, in the far corners
of the world--on the Atlantic, for instance."

"You have had some news?" she interrupted.

"It is really a private piece of information," he told her, "and it
won't be in the papers--not the way the thing happened, anyway--but I
don't suppose there's any harm in telling you, as we were both more or
less mixed up in the affair. Graham was shot the next day, on his way
up to Northumberland."

"Shot?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Murdered, if you'd like the whole thrill," Lutchester continued. "Of
course, we didn't get many particulars in the wireless, but we gathered
that he was shot by some one passing him in a more powerful car on a
lonely stretch of the Great North Road."

Pamela shuddered. She was for the moment profoundly impressed. A
certain air of unreality which had hung over the events of that night
was suddenly banished. The whole tragedy rose up before her eyes. The
effect of it was almost stupefying.

"Gave me quite a shock," Lutchester confided. "Somehow or other I had
never been able to take that night quite seriously. There was more than
a dash of melodrama in it, wasn't there? Seems now as though those
fellows must have been in earnest, though."

"And as though Captain Graham's formula," she reminded him gravely,
"was the real thing."

"Whereupon," Lutchester observed, "our first interest in the affair
receives a certain stimulus. Some one stole the formula. To judge from
the behaviour of those amiable gentlemen connected with Henry's
Restaurant, it wasn't they. Some one had been before them. Have you any
theories, Miss Van Teyl?"

"I can tell you who has," she replied. "Do you remember when we were
all grouped around that notice--Mefiez-vous! Taisez-vous! Les oreilles
ennemies vous ecoutent!?"

"Of course I do," he assented.

"Do you remember Baron Sunyea making a remark afterwards? He had been
standing by and heard everything Graham said."

"Can't say that I do," Lutchester regretted, "but I remember seeing him
about the place."

"You promise to say or do nothing without my permission, if I tell you
something?" she went on.

"Naturally!"

"See, then, how diplomacy or secret service work, or whatever you like
to call it, can gather the ends of the world together! Only a quarter
of an hour ago that Japanese valet of my brother's, having searched my
rooms in vain, demanded from me that formula!"

"From you?" Lutchester gasped. "But you haven't got it!"

"Of course not. On the other hand Sunyea pitched upon me as being one
of the possible thieves, and cabled his instructions over."

"Have you got it?" he asked abruptly.

"If I had," she smiled, "I should not tell you."

"But come," he expostulated, "the thing's no use to you."

"So Baron Sunyea evidently thought," she laughed. "We'll leave that, if
you don't mind."

Lutchester was still looking a little bewildered.

"I had an idea when I came in," he muttered, "that things were a little
scrappy between you and the Japanese gentleman."

She was suddenly serious.

"Now that I have told you the truth," she said, "I really ought to
thank you. You certainly seem to have a knack of appearing when you are
wanted."

"Fluke this time, I'm afraid," he acknowledged, "but I rather like the
suggestion. You ought to see a great deal of me, Miss Van Teyl. Do you
realise that I am a stranger in New York, and any hospitality you can
show me may be doubly rewarded? Are you going to take me round and show
me the sights?"

"Are you going to have any time for sight-seeing?"

"Well, I hope so. Why not? A fellow can't do more than a certain number
of hours' work in a day."

She looked at him curiously.

"And yet," she murmured, "you expect to win the war!"

"Of course we shall win the war," he assured her confidently. "You
haven't any doubt about that yourself, have you, Miss Van Teyl?"

"I don't know," she told him calmly.

Lutchester was almost horrified. He rose to his feet and stood looking
down at his companion.

"Tell me what on earth you mean?" he demanded. "We always win in the
long run, even if we muddle things about a little."

"I was just contrasting in my mind," she said thoughtfully, "some of
the Germans whom I have met since the war, with some of the Englishmen.
They are taking it very seriously, you know, Mr. Lutchester. They don't
find time for luncheon parties or sight-seeing."

"That's just their way," he protested. "They turn themselves into
machines. They are what we used to call suckers at school, but you can
take my word for it that before next autumn they will be on the run."

"You call them suckers," she observed. "That's because they're always
working, always studying, always experimenting. Supposing they got hold
of something like this new explosive?"

"First of all," he told her, "I don't believe in it, and secondly, if
it exists, the formula isn't in their hands."

"Supposing it is in mine?" she suggested. "I might sell it to them."

"I'd trust you all the time," he laughed lightheartedly. "I can't see
you giving a leg up to the Huns.... Will you lunch with me at one
o'clock to-morrow, please?"

"Certainly not," she replied. "You must attend to your work, whatever
it is."

"That's all very well," he grumbled, "but every one has an hour off for
luncheon."

"People who win wars don't lunch," she declared severely. "Here's
Jimmy--I can hear his voice--and he's brought some one up with him.
I'll--let you know about lunch."

The door opened. James Van Teyl and Fischer entered together.




CHAPTER XIII


The first few seconds after the entrance of the two men were
monopolised by the greetings of Pamela with her brother. Fischer stood
a little in the background, his eyes fixed upon Lutchester. His brain
was used to emergencies, but he found himself here confronted by an
unanswerable problem.

"Say, this is Mr. Lutchester, isn't it?" he inquired, holding out his
hand.

"The same," Lutchester assented politely. "We met at Henry's some ten
days ago, didn't we?"

"Mr. Lutchester has brought us a letter from Dicky Green, Jimmy,"
Pamela explained, as she withdrew from her brother's arms. "Quite
unnecessary, as it happens, because I met him in London just before we
sailed."

"Very glad to meet you, Mr. Lutchester," Jimmy declared, wringing his
hand with American cordiality. "Dicky's an old pal of mine--one of the
best. We graduated in the same year from Harvard."

Conversation for a few minutes was platitudinous. Van Teyl, although he
showed few signs of his recent excesses, was noisy and boisterous,
clutching at this brief escape from a situation which he dreaded.
Fischer on the other hand, remained in the back-ground, ominously
silent, thinking rapidly, speculating and theorising as to the
coincidence, if it were coincidence, of finding Lutchester and Pamela
together. He listened to the former's polite conversation, never once
letting his eyes wander from his face. All his thoughts were
concentrated upon one problem. The mysterious escape of Sandy Graham,
which had sent him flying from the country, remained unsolved. Of
Pamela's share in it he had already his suspicions. Was it possible
that Lutchester was the other and the central figure in that remarkable
rescue? He waited his opportunity, and, during a momentary lull in the
cheerful conversation, broke in with his first question.

"Say, Mr. Lutchester, you haven't any twin brother, have you?"

"No brother at all," Lutchester admitted.

"Then, how did you get over here? You were at Henry's weren't you, on
the night the _Lapland_ sailed? You didn't cross with us, and there's
no other steamer due for two days."

"Then I can't be here," Lutchester declared. "The thing's impossible."

"Guess you'll have to explain, if you want to save me from a sleepless
night," Fischer persisted.

Lutchester smiled. He had the air of one enjoying the situation
immensely.

"Well," he said, "I have had to confess to Miss Van Teyl here, so I
may as well make a clean breast of it to you. To every one else I meet
in New York, I shall say that I came over on the _Lapland_. I really
came over on a destroyer."

Fischer's face seemed to become more set and grim than ever.

"A British destroyer," he muttered to himself.

"It was kind of a joy ride," Lutchester explained confidentially, "a
cousin of mine who was in command came in to see me and say good-by,
just after I'd received my orders from the head of my department to
come out here on the next steamer, and he smuggled me on board that
night. Mum's the word, though, if you please. We asked nobody's leave.
It would have taken about a month to have heard anything definite from
the Admiralty."

"A British destroyer come across the Atlantic, eh?" Mr. Fischer
muttered. "She must have come out on a special mission, then, I
imagine."

"That is not for me to say," Lutchester observed, with stiff reticence.

Pamela suddenly and purposely intervened. She turned towards Fischer.

"Mr. Lutchester brought some rather curious news," she observed. "He
got it by wireless. Do you remember all the fuss there was about the
disappearance of Captain Holderness' friend at Henry's?"

"I heard something about it," he admitted grimly.

"Well, Captain Graham was in my party, so naturally I was more
interested than any one else. To all appearance he entered Henry's
Restaurant, walked up the stairs, and disappeared into the skies. The
place was ransacked everywhere for him, but he never turned up. Well,
the very next day he was murdered in a motor-car on his way to
Northumberland."

"Incredible!" Fischer murmured.

"Seems a queer set out," Lutchester remarked, "but it's quite true. He
was supposed to have discovered a marvellous new explosive, the formula
for which had been stolen. He was on his way up to Northumberland to
make fresh experiments."

"For myself I have little faith," Fischer observed, "in any new
explosives. In Germany they believe, I understand, that the limit of
destructiveness has been attained."

"The Germans should know," Lutchester admitted carelessly. "I'm afraid
they are still a good deal ahead of us in most scientific matters. I
will take the liberty, of calling some time to-morrow, Miss Van Teyl,
and hope I shall have the pleasure of improving my acquaintance with
your brother. Good night, Mr. Fischer."

"Are you staying in the hotel?" the latter inquired.

"On the fifteenth floor," was the somewhat gloomy reply. "I shan't be
able to shave in front of the window without feeling giddy. However, I
suppose that's America. Good-by, everybody."

With a little inclusive and farewell bow he disappeared. They heard him
make his way down the corridor and ring for the lift. Rather a curious
silence ensued, which was broken at last by Pamela.

"Is that," she asked, throwing herself into an easy-chair and selecting
a cigarette, "just an ordinary type of a nice, well-bred,
unintelligent, self-sufficient Englishman, or--"

"Or what?" Fischer asked, with interest.

Pamela watched the smoke curl from the end of her cigarette.

"Well, I scarcely know how to finish," she confessed, "only sometimes
when I am talking to him I feel that he can scarcely be as big a fool
as he seems, and then I wonder. Jimmy," she went on, shaking her head
at him, "you're not looking well. You've been sitting up too late and
getting into bad habits during my absence. Open confession, now, if you
please. If it's a girl, I shall give you my blessing."

Van Teyl groaned and said nothing. A foreboding of impending trouble
depressed Pamela. She turned towards Fischer and found in his grim face
confirmation of her fears.

"What does this mean?" she demanded.

"Your brother will explain," Fischer replied. "It is better that he
should tell you everything."

"Everything?" she repeated. "What is there to tell. What have you to do
with my brother, anyway?" she added fiercely.

"You must not look at me as though I were in any way to blame for what
has happened," was the insistent reply. "On the contrary, I have been
very lenient with your brother. I am still prepared to be lenient--upon
certain conditions."

The light of battle was in Pamela's eyes. She fought against the
significance of the man's ominous words. This was his first blow, then,
and directed against her.

"I begin to understand," she said. "Please go on. Let me hear
everything."

Van Teyl had turned to the sideboard. He mixed and drank off a whisky
and soda. Then he swung around.

"I'll make a clean breast of it in a few words, Pamela," he promised.
"I've gambled with Fischer's money, lost it, forged a transfer of his
certificates to meet my liabilities, and I am in his power. He could
have me hammered and chucked into Sing Sing, if he wanted to. That's
all there is about it."

Pamela stood the shock well. She turned to Fischer.

"How much of this are you responsible for?" she asked.

"That," he objected, "is an impotent question. It is not I who had the
moulding of your brother's character. It is not I who made him a forger
and a weakling."

Van Teyl's arm was upraised. An oath broke from his lips. Pamela seized
him firmly and drew him away.

"Be quiet, James," she begged. "Let us hear what Mr. Fischer is going
to do about it."

"That depends upon you," was the cold reply.

Pamela stood at the head of the table, between the two men, and
laughed. Her brother had sunk into a chair, and his head had dropped
moodily upon his folded arms. She looked from one to the other and a
new sense of strength inspired her. She felt that if she were not
indeed entirely mistress of the situation, yet the elements of triumph
were there to her hand.

"This is living, at any rate," she declared. "First of all I discover
that your Japanese servant is a spy--"

"Nikasti!" Van Teyl interrupted furiously. "Blast him! I knew that
there was something wrong about that fellow, Fischer."

Fischer frowned.

"What's he been up to?" he inquired.

"Well, to begin with," Pamela explained, "he searched my room, then he
locked me in here, and was proceeding to threaten me when fortunately
Mr. Lutchester arrived."

"Threaten you--what about?" Fischer demanded.

"He seemed to have an absurd idea," Pamela explained sweetly, "that I
might have somewhere concealed upon my person the formula which was
stolen from Captain Graham last Monday week at Henry's Restaurant. It
makes quite a small world of it, doesn't it?"

"I will deal with Nikasti for this," Fischer promised, "if it is true.
Meanwhile?"

"No sooner have I got over that little shock," Pamela went on, "than
you turn up with this melodramatic story, and an offer from Mr.
Fischer, which I can read in his face. Really, I feel that I shall hear
the buzz of a cinema machine in a moment. How much do you owe him,
Jimmy?"

"Eighty-nine thousand dollars," the young man groaned.

"I'll write you a cheque to-morrow morning," Pamela promised. "Will
that do, Mr. Fischer?"

"It is the last thing I desire," was the calm reply.

"Really! Well, perhaps now you will come to the point. Perhaps you will
tell me what it is that you do want?"

"Stolen property," Fischer announced deliberately--"stolen property,
however, to which I have a greater right than you."

She laughed at him mockingly.

"I think not, Mr. Fischer," she said. "You really don't deserve it, you
know."

"And why not?"

"Just see how you have bungled! You bait the trap, the poor man walks
into it, and you allow another to forestall you. Not only that, but you
actually allow Japan to come into the game, and but for Mr.
Lutchester's appearance we might both of us have been left planté là.
No, Mr. Fischer! You don't deserve the formula, and you shall not have
it. I'll pay my brother's debt to you in dollars--no other way."

"Dollars," Mr. Fischer told her sternly, "will never buy the forged
transfer. Dollars will never keep your brother out of the city police
court or Sing Sing afterwards. There isn't much future for a young man
who has been through it."

Van Teyl was upon him suddenly with a low, murderous cry. Fischer had
no time to resist, no chance of success if he had attempted it. He was
borne backwards on to the lounge, his assailant's hand upon his throat.
The young man was beside himself with drink and fury. The words poured
from his lips, incoherent, hot with rage.

"You--hound! You've made my life a hell! You've plotted and schemed to
get me into your power!... There! Do you feel the life going out of
you?... My sister, indeed! You!... You scum of the earth! You ..."

"James!"

The sound of Pamela's voice unnerved him. His fit of passion was spent.
She dragged him easily away.

"Don't be a fool, Jimmy!" she begged. "You can't settle accounts like
that."

"Can't I?" he muttered. "If we'd been alone, Pamela ... my God, if he
and I had been alone here!"

"Jimmy," she said, "you're a fool, and you've been drinking. Fetch the
water bottle."

He obeyed, and she dashed water in Fischer's face. Presently he opened
his eyes, groaned and sat up. There were two livid marks upon his
throat. Van Teyl watched him like a crouching animal. His eyes were
still lit with sullen fire. The lust for killing was upon him. Fischer
sat up and blinked. He felt the atmosphere of the room, and he knew his
danger. His hand stole into his hip pocket, and a small revolver
suddenly flashed upon his knees. He drew a long breath of relief. He
was like a fugitive who had found sanctuary.

"So that's the game, James Van Teyl, is it?" he exclaimed. "Now
listen."

He adjusted the revolver with a click. His cruel, long fingers were
pressed around its stock.

"I am not threatening you," he went on. "I am not fond of violence, and
I don't believe in it. This is just in case you come a single yard
nearer to me. Now, Miss Van Teyl, my business is with you. We won't
fence any longer. You will hand over to me the pocketbook which you
stole from Captain Graham in Henry's Restaurant. Hand it over to me
intact, you understand. In return I will give you the forged transfer
of stock, and leave it to your sense of honour as to whether you care
to pay your brother's debt or not. If you decline to consider my
proposition, I shall ring up Joseph Neville, your brother's senior
partner. I shall not even wait for to-morrow, mind. I shall make an
appointment, and I shall place in his hands the proof of your brother's
robbery."

"Perhaps," Pamela murmured, "I was wrong to stop you. Jimmy....
Anything else, Mr. Fischer?"

"Just this. I would rather have carried this matter through in a
friendly fashion, for reasons at which I think you can guess."

She shook her head.

"You flatter my intelligence!" she told him scornfully.

"I will explain, then. I desire to offer myself as your suitor."

She laughed at him without restraint or consideration.

"I would rather marry my brother's valet!" she declared.

"You are entirely wrong," he protested. "You are wrong, too, in holding
up cards against me. We are on the same side. You are an American, and
so am I. I swear that I desire nothing that is not for your good. You
have wonderful gifts, and I have great wealth and opportunities. I have
also a sincere and very heartfelt admiration for you."

"I have never been more flattered!" Pamela scoffed.

He looked a little wistfully from one to the other. Antagonism and
dislike were written in their faces. Even Pamela, who was skilled in
the art of subterfuge, made little effort to conceal her aversion.
Nevertheless, he continued doggedly.

"What does it matter," he demanded, "who handles this formula--you or
I? Our faces are turned in the same direction. There is this difference
only with me. I want to make it the basis of a kindlier feeling in
Washington towards my father's country."

Pamela's eyebrows were raised.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that the formula itself would not find its
way into your father's country?"

"As to that I pledge my word," he replied. "I am an American citizen."

"Looks like it, doesn't he!" Van Teyl jeered.

"Tell us what you have been doing in Berlin, then?" Pamela inquired.

"I had a definite mission there," Fischer assured them, "which I hope
to bring to a definite conclusion. If you are an American citizen in
the broadest sense of the word, England is no more to you than Germany.
I want to place before some responsible person in the American
Government, a proposal--an official proposal--the acceptance of which
will be in years to come of immense benefit to her."

"And the quid pro quo?" Pamela asked gently.

"I am not here for the purpose of gratifying curiosity," Fischer
replied, "but if you will take this matter up seriously, you shall be
the person through whom this proposal shall be brought before the
American Government. The whole of the negotiations shall be conducted
through you. If you succeed, you will be known throughout history as
the woman who saved America from her great and growing danger. If you
fail, you will be no worse off than you are now."

"And you propose to hand over the conduct of these negotiations to me,"
Pamela observed, "in return for what?"

"The pocketbook which you took from Captain Graham."

"So there we are, back again at the commencement of our discussion,"
Pamela remarked. "Are you going to repeat that you want this formula
for Washington and not for Berlin?"

"My first idea," Fischer confessed, "was to hand it over to Germany. I
have changed my views. Germany has great explosives of her own. This
formula shall be used in a different fashion. It shall be a lever in
the coming negotiations between America and Germany."

"We have had a great deal of conversation to no practical purpose,"
Pamela declared. "Why are you so sure that I have the formula?"

Fischer frowned slightly. He had recovered himself now, and his tone
was as steady and quiet as ever. Only occasionally his eyes wandered to
where James Van Teyl was fidgetting about the table, and at such times
his fingers tightened upon the stock of his revolver.

"It is practically certain that you have the papers," he pointed out.
"You were the first person to go up the stairs after Graham had been
rendered unconscious. Joseph admits that he had been forced to leave
him--the orchestra was waiting to play. He was alone in that little
room. That you should have known of its existence and his presence
there is surprising, but nothing more. Furthermore, I am convinced that
you were in some way concerned with his rescue later. You visited
Hassan and you visited Joseph. From the latter you procured the key of
the chapel. If only he had had the courage to tell the truth--well, we
will let that pass. You have the papers, Miss Van Teyl. I am bidding a
great price for them. If you are a wise woman, you will not hesitate."

There was a knock at the door. They all three turned towards it a
little impatiently. Even Pamela and her brother felt the grip of an
absorbing problem. To their surprise, it was Lutchester who reappeared
upon the threshold. In his hand he held a small sealed packet.

"So sorry to disturb you all," he apologised. "I have something here
which I believe belongs to you, Miss Van Teyl. I thought I'd better
bring it up and explain. From the way your little Japanese friend was
holding on to it, I thought it might be important. It is a little torn,
but that isn't my fault."

He held it out to Pamela. It was a long packet torn open at one end.
From it was protruding a worn, brown pocketbook. Pamela's hand closed
upon it mechanically. There was a dazed look in her eyes. Fischer's
fingers stole once more towards the pocket into which, at Lutchester's
entrance, he had slipped his revolver.




CHAPTER XIV


Lutchester, to all appearance, remained sublimely unconscious of the
tension which his words and appearance seemed to have created. He had
strolled a little further into the room, and was looking down at the
packet which he still held.

"You are wondering how I got hold of this, of course?" he observed.
"Just one of those simple little coincidences which either mean a great
deal or nothing at all."

"How did you know it was mine?" Pamela asked, almost under her breath.

"I'll explain," Lutchester continued. "I was in the lobby of the hotel,
a few minutes ago, when I heard the fire bell outside. I hurried out
and watched the engines go by from the sidewalk. I have always been
rather interested in--"

"Never mind that, please. Go on," Pamela asked, almost under her
breath.

"Certainly," Lutchester assented. "On the way back, then, I saw a
little Japanese, who was coming out of the hotel, knocked down by a
taxicab which skidded nearly into the door. I don't think he was badly
hurt--I'm not even sure that he was hurt at all. I picked up this
packet from the spot where he had been lying, and I was on the point of
taking it to the office when I saw your name upon it, Miss Van Teyl, in
what seemed to me to be your own handwriting, so I thought I'd bring it
up."

He laid it upon the table. Pamela's eyes seemed fastened upon it. She
turned it over nervously.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Lutchester," she murmured.

"I'll be perfectly frank," he went on. "I should have found out where
the little man who dropped it had disappeared to, and restored it to
him, but I fancied--of course, I may have been wrong--that you and he
were having some sort of a disagreement, a few minutes ago, when I
happened to come in. Anyway, that was in my mind, and I thought I'd run
no risks."

"You did the very kindest and most considerate thing," Pamela declared.

"The little Japanese must have been our new valet," James Van Teyl
observed. "I'm beginning to think that he is not going to be much of an
acquisition."

"You'll probably see something of him in a few minutes," Lutchester
remarked. "I will wish you good night, Miss Van Teyl. Good night!"

Pamela's reiterated thanks were murmured and perfunctory. Even James
Van Teyl's hospitable instincts seemed numbed. They allowed Lutchester
to depart with scarcely a word. With the closing of the door, speech
brought them some relief from a state of tension which was becoming
intolerable. Even then Fischer at first said nothing. He had risen
noiselessly to his feet, his right hand was in the sidepocket of his
coat, his eyes were fixed upon the table.

"So this is why you insisted upon a valet!" James Van Teyl exclaimed,
his voice thick with anger. "He's planted here to rob for you! Is that
it, eh, Fischer?"

Pamela drew the packet towards her and stood with her right palm
covering it. Fischer seemed still at a loss for words.

"I can assure you," he said at last fervently, "that if that packet was
stolen from Miss Van Teyl by Nikasti, it was done without my
instigation. It is as much a surprise to me as to any of you. We can
congratulate ourselves that it is not on the way to Japan."

Pamela nodded.

"He is speaking the truth," she asserted. "Nikasti is not out to steal
for others. He is playing the same game as all of us, only he is
playing it for his own hand. Mr. Fischer has brought him here for some
purpose of his own, without a doubt, but I am quite sure that Nikasti
never meant to be any one's cat's-paw."

"Believe me, that is the truth," Fischer agreed. "I will admit that I
brought Nikasti here with a purpose, but upon my honour I swear that
until this evening I never dreamed that he even knew of the existence
of the formula."

"Oh! we are not the only people in the world who are clever," Pamela
declared, with an unnatural little laugh. "The first man who took note
of Sandy Graham's silly words as he rushed into Henry's was Baron
Sunyea. I saw him stiffen as he listened. He even uttered a word of
remonstrance. Japan in London heard. Japan in your sitting-room here,
in ten days' time, knew everything there was to be known."

"I didn't bring Nikasti here for this," Fischer insisted.

"Perhaps not," Pamela conceded, "but if you're a good American, what
are you doing at all with a Japanese secret agent?"

"If you trust me, you shall know," Fischer promised. "Listen to reason.
Let us have finished with one affair at a time. You very nearly lost
that formula to Japan. Hand over the pocketbook. You see how dangerous
it is for it to remain in your possession. I'll keep my share of the
bargain. I'll put my scheme before you. Come, be reasonable. See,
here's the forged transfer."

He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out upon the table. His
long, hairy fingers were shaking with nervousness.

"Come, make it a deal," he persisted, "You can pay me the defalcations
or not, as you choose. There is your brother's freedom and the honour
of your name, in exchange for that pocketbook."

Pamela, after all her hesitation, seemed to make up her mind with
startling suddenness. She thrust the pocketbook towards Fischer, took
the transfer from his fingers and tore it into small pieces.

"I give in," she said. "This time you have scored. We will talk about
the other matter tomorrow."

Fischer buttoned up the packet carefully in his breast pocket. His eyes
glittered. He turned towards the door. On the threshold he looked
around. He stretched out his hand towards Pamela.

"Believe me, you have done well," he assured her hoarsely. "I shall
keep my word. I will set you in the path of great things."

He left the room, and they heard the furious ringing of the lift bell.
Pamela was tearing into smaller pieces the forged transfer. Van Teyl, a
little pale, but with new life in his frame, was watching the fragments
upon the floor. There was a tap at the door. Nikasti entered. Pamela's
fingers paused in their task. Van Teyl stared at him. The newcomer was
carrying the evening papers, which he laid down upon the table.

"Is there anything more I can do before I go to bed, sir?" he asked,
with his usual reverential little bow.

"Aren't you hurt?" Van Teyl exclaimed.

"Hurt?" Nikasti replied wonderingly. "Oh, no!"

"Weren't you knocked down by a taxicab," Pamela asked, "outside the
hotel?"

Nikasti looked from one to the other with an air of gentle surprise.

"I have been to my rooms in the servants' quarters," he told them, "on
the upper floor. I have not been downstairs at all. I have been
unpacking and arranging my own humble belongings."

Van Teyl clasped his forehead.

"Let me get this!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been down in the lobby of
the hotel, you haven't been knocked down by a taxicab that skidded, you
haven't lost a pocketbook which you had previously stolen from my
sister?"

Nikasti shook his head. He seemed completely mystified. He watched
Pamela's face carefully.

"Perhaps there has been some mistake," he suggested quietly. "My
English is sometimes not very good. I would not dream of trying to rob
the young lady. I have not lost any pocketbook. I have not descended
lower down in the hotel than this floor."

Van Teyl waved him away, accepted his farewell salutation, and waited
until the door was closed.

"Look here, Pamela," he protested, turning almost appealingly towards
her, "my brain wasn't made for this sort of thing. What in thunder does
it all mean?"

Pamela looked at the fragments of paper upon the floor and sank back in
an easy chair.

"Jimmy," she confided, "I don't know."




CHAPTER XV


Pamela opened her eyes the next morning upon a distinctly pleasing
sight. At the foot of her bed was an enormous basket of pink
carnations. On the counterpane by her side lay a smaller cluster of
twelve very beautiful dark red Gloire de Dijon roses. Attached to these
latter was a note.

"When did these flowers come, Leah?" Pamela asked the maid who was
moving about the room.

"An hour ago, madam," the girl told her.

"Read the name on the card," Pamela directed, pointing to the mass of
pink blossoms.

"Mr. Oscar H. Fischer," the girl read out, "with respectful
compliments."

Pamela smiled.

"He doesn't know, then," she murmured to herself. "Get my bath ready,
Leah."

The maid disappeared into the inner room. Pamela tore open the note
attached to the roses by her side, and read it slowly through:

Dear Miss Van Teyl,

I am so very sorry, but the luncheon we had half-planned for to-day
must be postponed. I have an urgent message to go south; to
inspect--but no secrets! It's horribly disappointing. I hope we may
meet in a few days.

Sincerely yours,

JOHN LUTCHESTER.

Pamela laid down the note, conscious of an indefined but distinct
sensation of disappointment. After all, it was not so wonderful to wake
up and find oneself in New York. The sun was pleasant, the little puffs
of air which came in through the window across the park, delightful and
exhilarating, yet something had gone out of the day. Accustomed to
self-analysis, she asked herself swiftly--what? It was, without a
doubt, something to do with Lutchester's departure. She tried to face
the question of her disappointment. Was it possible to feel any real
interest in a man who preferred a Government post to the army at such a
time, and who had brought his golf clubs out to America? Her
imagination for a moment revolved around the problem of his apparently
uninteresting and yet, in some respects, contradictory personality. Was
it really her fancy or had she, every now and then, detected behind
that flamboyant manner traces of something deeper and more serious,
something which seemed to indicate a life and aims of which nothing
appeared upon the surface? She clasped her knees and sat up in bed,
listening to the sound of the running water in the next room. Was there
any possible explanation of his opportune appearance on the night
before with a dummy pocketbook and a concocted story? The cleverest man
on earth could surely never have gauged her position with Fischer and
intervened in such a manner at the psychological moment.

Yet he had done it, she reflected, gazing thoughtfully at Fischer's
gift. If, indeed, he knew what was passing around him to that extent,
how much more knowledge might he not possess? She felt the little
silken belt around her waist. At least there was no one who could take
Sandy Graham's secret from her until she chose to give it up. Supposing
for a moment that Lutchester was also out for the great things, was he
fooled by her attitude? If he knew so much, he must know that the
secret remained with her. Perhaps, after all, he was only a philanderer
in intrigue....

Pamela bathed and dressed, sent for her brother, and, to his horror,
insisted upon an American breakfast.

"It's quite time I came back to look after you, Jimmy," she said
severely, as she watched him send away his grapefruit and gaze
helplessly at his bacon and eggs. "You're going to turn over a new
leaf, young man."

"I shan't be sorry," he confessed fervently. "I tell you, Pamela, when
you have a thing like this hanging over you, it's hell--some hell! You
just want to drown your thoughts and keep going all the time."

She nodded sagely.

"Well, that's over now, Jimmy," she said, "and I meant you to listen to
me. It's more than likely that Mr. Fischer may find out at any moment
that the mysterious pocketbook, which came from heaven knows where, is
a faked one. He may be horrid about it."

"While we are on that," Van Teyl interrupted, "I couldn't sleep a wink
last night for trying to imagine where on earth that fellow Lutchester
came in, and what his game was."

"I have a headache this morning, trying to puzzle out the same thing,"
Pamela told him.

"He seems such an ordinary sort of chap," Van Teyl continued
thoughtfully. "Good sportsman, no doubt, and all that sort of thing,
but the last fellow in the world to concoct a yarn, and if he did, what
was his object?"

"Jimmy," his sister begged, "let's quit. Of course, I know a little
more than you do, but the little more that I do know only makes it more
confusing. Now, to make it worse, he's gone away."

"What, this morning?"

"Gone away on his Government work," Pamela announced. "I had a note and
some roses from him. Don't let's talk about it, Jimmy. I keep on
getting new ideas, and it makes my brain whirl. I want to talk about
you."

"I'm a rotten lot to talk about," he sighed.

She patted his hand.

"You're nothing of the sort, dear, and you've got to remember now that
you're out of the trouble. But listen. Hurry down to the office as
early as you can and set about straightening things out, so that if Mr.
Fischer tries to make trouble, he won't be able to do it. There's my
cheque for eighty-nine thousand dollars I made out last night before I
went to bed," she added, passing it over to him. "Just replace what
stocks you're short of and get yourself out of the mess, and don't
waste any time about it."

His face glowed as he looked across the table.

"You're the most wonderful sister, Pamela."

"Nonsense!" she interrupted. "Nonsense! I ought not to have left you
alone all this time, and, besides, I'm pretty sure he helped you into
this trouble for his own ends. Anyway, we are all right now. I shall be
in New York for a few days before I go to Washington. When I do go, you
must see whether you can get leave and come with me."

"That's bully," he declared. "I'll get leave, right enough. There's
never been less doing in Wall Street. But say, Pamela, I don't seem to
half understand what's going on. You've given up most of your friends,
and you spend months away there in Europe in all sorts of corners. Now
you come back and you seem mixed up in regular secret service work.
Where do you come in, anyway? What are you going to Washington for?"

She smiled.

"Queer tastes, haven't I, Jimmy?"

"Queer for a girl."

"That's prejudice," she objected, shaking her head. "Nowadays there are
few things a woman can't do. To tell you the truth, my new interest in
life started three years ago, when Uncle Theodore found out that I was
going to Rome for the winter."

"So Uncle Theodore started it, did he?"

She nodded.

"That's the worst of having an uncle in the Administration, isn't it?
Well, of course, he gave me letters to every one in Rome, and I found
out what he wanted quite easily, and without the inquiries going
through the Embassy at all. Sometimes, as you can understand, that's a
great advantage. I found it simply fascinating--the work, I mean--and
after three or four more commissions--well, they recognised me at
Washington. I have been to most of the capitals in Europe at different
times, with small affairs to arrange at each, or information to get.
Sometimes it's been just about commercial things. Since the war,
though, of course, it's been more exciting than ever. If I were an
Englishwoman instead of an American, I could tell them some things in
London which they'd find pretty surprising. It's not my affair, though,
and I keep what information I do pick up until it works in with
something else for our own good. I knew quite well in Berlin, for
instance, to speak of something you've heard of, that Henry's
Restaurant in London was being used as a centre of espionage by the
Germans. That is why I was on the lookout, the day I went there."

"You mean the day that pocketbook was stolen that the whole world seems
crazy about?" Van Teyl asked.

She nodded.

"I believe it is perfectly true," she said, "that a young man called
Graham has invented an entirely new explosive, the formula for which he
brought to Henry's with him that day. It isn't only what happens when
the shell explodes, but a sort of putrefaction sets in all round, and
they say that everything within a mile dies. There were spies down even
watching his experiments. There were spies following him up to London,
there were spies in Henry's Restaurant when like a fool he gave the
thing away. Fischer was the ringleader of this lot, and he meant having
the formula from Graham that night. I don't want to bore you, Jimmy,
but I got there first."

"Bore me!" the young man repeated. "Why, it's like a modern Arabian
Nights. I can't imagine you in the thick of this sort of thing,
Pamela."

"It's very easy to slip into the way of anything you like," she
answered. "I knew exactly what they were going to do to Captain Graham,
and I got there before them. When they searched him, the formula had
gone. Fischer caught my steamer and worried me all the way over. He
thought he had us in a corner last night, and then a miracle happened."

"You mean that fellow Lutchester turning up?"

"Yes, I mean that," Pamela admitted.

"Say, didn't that Jap fellow get the pocketbook from your rooms at all,
then?" Van Teyl asked. "I couldn't follow it all last night."

"He searched my rooms," Pamela replied, "and failed to find it.
Afterwards, when he and I were alone in your sitting-room, heaven knows
what would have happened, but for the miraculous arrival of Mr.
Lutchester, whom I had left behind in London, come to pay an evening
call in the Hotel Plaza, New York!"

Van Teyl shook his head slowly, got up from his seat, lit a cigarette,
and came back again.

"Pam," he confessed, "my brain won't stand it. You're not going to tell
me that Lutchester's in the game? Why, a simpler sort of fellow I never
spoke to."

"I can't make up my own mind about Mr. Lutchester," Pamela sighed. "He
helped me in London on the night I sailed--in fact, he was very useful
indeed--but why he invented that story about Nikasti, brought a dummy
pocketbook into the room and helped us out of all our troubles, unless
it was by sheer and brilliant instinct, I cannot imagine."

"Let me get on to this," Van Teyl said. "Even the pocketbook was a
fake, then?"

She nodded.

"I shouldn't be likely to leave things I risk my life for about my
bedroom," she told him.

"Where is it, then--the real thing?" he asked.

She smiled.

"If you must know, Jimmy," she confided, dropping her voice, "it's in a
little compartment of a silk belt around my waist. It will remain there
until I get to Washington, or until Mr. Haskall comes to me."

"Haskall, the Government explosives man?"

Pamela nodded.

"Even he won't get it without Government authority."

"Now, tell me, Pamela," Van Teyl went on--"you're a far-seeing girl--I
suppose we should get it in the neck from Germany some day or other, if
the Germans won? Why don't you hand the formula over to the British,
and give them a chance to get ahead?"

"That's a sensible question, Jimmy, and I'll try to answer it," Pamela
promised. "Because when once the shells are made and used, the secret
will be gone. I think it very likely that it would enable England to
win the war; but, you see, I am an American, not English, and I'm all
American. I have been in touch with things pretty closely for some time
now, and I see trouble ahead for us before very long. I can't exactly
tell you where it's coming from, but I feel it. I want America to have
something up her sleeve, that's why."

"You're a great girl, Pamela," her brother declared. "I'm off downtown,
feeling a different man. And, Pamela, I haven't said much, but God
bless you, and as long as I live I'm going as straight as a die. I've
had my lesson."

He bent over her a little clumsily and kissed her. Pamela walked to the
door with him.

"Be a dear," she called out, "and come back early. And, Jimmy!" ...

"Hullo?'"

"Put things right at the office at once," she whispered with emphasis.
"Fischer hasn't found out yet. I sent him a message this morning,
thanking him for the carnations, and asking him to walk with me in the
park after breakfast, I shall keep him away till lunch time, at least."

The young man looked at her, and at Nikasti, who out in the corridor
was holding his hat and cane. Then he chuckled.

"And they say that things don't happen in New York!" he murmured, as he
turned away.




CHAPTER XVI


An elderly New Yorker, a man of fashion, renowned for his social
perceptions, pressed his companion's arm at the entrance to Central
Park and pointed to Pamela.

"There goes a typical New York girl," he said, "and the best-looking
I've seen for many a long day. You can go all round Europe, Freddie,
and not see a girl with a face and figure like that. She had that frank
way, too, of looking you in the eyes."

"I know," the other assented. "Gibson's girls all had it. Kind of look
which seems to say--'I know you find me nice and I don't mind. I wonder
whether you're nice, too.'"

Pamela strolled along the park with Fischer by her side. She wore a
tailor-made costume of black and white tweed, and a smart hat, in which
yellow seemed the predominating colour. Her shoes, her gloves, the
little tie about her throat, were all the last word in the simple
elegance of suitability. Fischer walked by her side--a powerful,
determined figure in a carefully-pressed blue serge suit and a brown
Homburg hat. He wore a rose in his buttonhole, and he carried a
cane--both unusual circumstances. After fifty years of strenuous
living, Mr. Fischer seemed suddenly to have found a new thing in the
world.

"This is a pleasant idea of yours, Miss Van Teyl," he said.

"I haven't disturbed your morning, I hope?" she asked.

"I guess, if you have, it isn't the way you mean," he replied. "You've
disturbed a good deal of my time and thoughts lately."

"Well, you've had your own way now," she sighed, looking at him out of
the corner of her eyes. "I suppose you always get your own way in the
end, don't you, Mr. Fischer?"

"Generally," he admitted. "I tell you, though, Miss Van Teyl," he went
on earnestly, "if you're alluding to last night's affair, I hated the
whole business. It was my duty, and the opportunity was there, but with
what I have I am satisfied. With reference to that little debt of your
brother's--"

"Please don't say a word, Mr. Fischer," she interrupted. "You will find
that all put right as soon as you get down to Wall Street. Tell me,
what have you done with your prize?"

Mr. Fischer looked very humble.

"Miss Van Teyl," he said, "for certain reasons I am going to tell you
the truth. Perhaps it will be the best in the long run. We may even
before long be working together. So I start by being honest with you.
The pocketbook is by now on its way to Germany."

"To Germany?" she exclaimed. "And after all your promises!"

"Ah, but think, Miss Van Teyl," he pleaded. "I throw aside all
subterfuge. In your heart you know well what I am and what I stand for.
I deny it no longer. I am a German-American, working for Germany,
simply because America does not need my help. If America were at war
with any country in the world, my brains, my knowledge, my wealth would
be hers. But now it is different. Germany is surrounded by many
enemies, and she calls for her sons all over the world to remember the
Fatherland. You can sympathise a little with my unfortunate country,
Miss Van Teyl, and yet remain a good American. You are not angry with
me?"

"I suppose I ought to be, but I am not in the least," she assured him.
"I never had any doubt as to the destination of that packet."

"That," he admitted, "is a relief to me. Let us wipe the matter from
our memories, Miss Van Teyl."

"One word," she begged, "and that only of curiosity. Did you examine
the contents of the pocketbook?"

He turned his head and looked at her. For a moment he had lost the
greater spontaneity of his new self. He was again the cold, calculating
machine.

"No," he answered, "except to take out and destroy what seemed to be a
few private memoranda. There was a bill for flowers, a note from a
young lady--some rubbish of that sort. The remaining papers were all
calculations and figures, chemical formulae."

"Are you a chemist, Mr. Fischer?" she inquired.

"Not in the least," he acknowledged. "I recognised just enough of the
formulae on the last page to realise that there were entirely new
elements being dealt with."

She nodded.

"I only asked out of curiosity. I agree. Let us put it out of our
thoughts. You see, I am generous. We have fought a battle, you and I,
and I have lost. Yet we remain friends."

"It is more than your friendship that I want, Miss Van Teyl," he
pleaded, his voice shaking a little. "I am years older than you, I
know, and, by your standards, I fear unattractive. But you love power,
and I have it. I will take you into my schemes. I will show you how
those live who stand behind the clouds and wield the thunders."

She looked at him with genuine surprise. It was necessary to readjust
some of her impressions of him. Oscar Fischer was, after all, a human
being.

"What you say is all very well so far as it goes," she told him. "I
admit that a life of scheming and adventure attracts me. I love power.
I can think of nothing more wonderful than to feel the machinery of the
world--the political world--roar or die away, according to the touch of
one's fingers. Oh, yes, we're alike so far as that is concerned! But
there is a very vital difference. You are only an American by accident.
I am one by descent. For me there doesn't exist any other country. For
you Germany comes first."

"But can't you realise," he went on eagerly, "that even this is for the
best? America to-day is hypnotised by a maudlin, sentimental affection
for England, a country from whom she never received anything but harm.
We want to change that. We want to kill for ever the misunderstandings
between the two greatest nations in the world. My creed of life could
be yours, too, without a single lapse from your patriotism. Friendship,
alliance, brotherhood, between Germany and America. That would be my
text."

"Shall I be perfectly frank?" Pamela asked.

"Nothing else is worth while," was the instant answer.

"Well, then," she continued, "I can quite see that Germany has
everything to gain from America's friendship, but I cannot see the quid
pro quo."

"And yet it is so clear," Fischer insisted. "Your own cloud may not be
very large just now, but it is growing, and, before you know it, it
will be upon you. Can you not realise why Japan is keeping out of this
war? She is conserving her strength. Millions flow into her coffers
week by week. In a few years time, Japan, for the first time in her
history, will know what it is to possess solid wealth. What does she
want it for, do you think? She has no dreams of European aggression, or
her soldiers would be fighting there now. China is hers for the taking,
a rich prize ready to fall into her mouth at any moment. But the end
and aim of all Japanese policy, the secret Mecca of her desires, is to
repay with the sword the insults your country has heaped upon her. It
is for that, believe me, that her arsenals are working night and day,
her soldiers are training, her fleet is in reserve. While you haggle
about a few volunteers, Japan is strengthening and perfecting a mighty
army for one purpose and one purpose only. Unless you wake up, you will
be in the position that Great Britain was in two years ago. Even now,
work though you may, you will never wholly make up for lost time. The
one chance for you is friendship with Germany."

"Will Germany be in a position to help us after the war?" Pamela asked.

"Never doubt it," Fischer replied vehemently. "Before peace is signed
the sea power of England will be broken. Financially she will be
ruined. She is a country without economic science, without foresight,
without statesmen. The days of her golden opportunities have passed,
frittered away. Unless we of our great pity bind up her wounds, England
will bleed to death before the war is over."

"That, you must remember," Pamela said practically, "is your point of
view."

"I could tell you things--" he began.

"Don't," she begged. "I know what your outlook is now. Be definite.
Leaving aside that other matter, what is your proposition to me?"

Fischer walked for a while in silence. They had turned back some time
since, and were once more nearing the Plaza.

"You ask me to leave out what is most vital," he said at last. "I have
never been married, Miss Van Teyl. I am wealthy. I am promised great
honours at the end of this war. When that comes, I shall rest. If
you will be my wife, you can choose your home, you can choose your
title."

She shook her head.

"But I am not sure that I even like you, Mr. Fischer," she objected.
"We have fought in opposite camps, and you have had the bad taste to be
victorious. Besides which, you were perfectly brutal to James, and I am
not at all sure that I don't resent your bargain with me. As a matter
of fact, I am feeling very bitter towards you."

"You should not," he remonstrated earnestly. "Remember that, after all,
women are only dabblers in diplomacy. Their very physique prevents them
from playing the final game. You have brains, of course, but there are
other things--experience, courage, resource. You would be a wonderful
helpmate, Miss Van Teyl, even if your individual and unaided efforts
have not been entirely successful."

She sighed. Pamela just then was a picture of engaging humility.

"It is so hard for me," she murmured, "I do not want to marry yet. I do
not wish to think of it. And so far as you are concerned, Mr.
Fischer--well, I am simply furious when I think of your attitude last
night. But I love adventures."

"I will promise you all the adventures that can be crammed into your
life," he urged.

"But be more definite," she persisted. "Where should we start? You are
over here now on some important mission. Tell me more about it?"

"I cannot just yet," he answered. "All that I can promise you is that,
if I am successful, it will stop the war just as surely as Captain Graham's
new explosive."

"I thought you were going to make a confidante of me," she complained.

He suddenly gripped her arm. It was the first time he had touched her,
and she felt a queer surging of the blood to her head, a sudden and
almost uncontrollable repulsion. The touch of his long fingers was like
flame; his eyes, behind their sheltering spectacles, glowed in a
curious, disconcerting fashion.

"To the woman who was my pledged wife," he said, "I would tell
everything. From the woman who gave me her hand and became my ally I
would have no secrets. Come, I have a message, more than a message, to
the American people. I am taking it to Washington before many hours
have passed. If it is your will, it should be you to whom I will
deliver it."

Pamela walked on with her head in the air. Fischer was leaning a little
towards her. Every now and then his mouth twitched slightly. His eyes
seemed to be seeking to reach the back of her brain.

"Please go now," she begged. "I can't think clearly while you are here,
and I want to make up my mind. I will send to you when I am ready."




CHAPTER XVII


Pamela sat that afternoon on the balcony of the country club at
Baltusrol and approved of her surroundings. Below her stretched a
pleasant vista of rolling greensward, dotted here and there with the
figures of the golfers. Beyond, the misty blue background of rising
hills.

"I can't tell you how peaceful this all seems, Jimmy," she said to her
brother, who had brought her out in his automobile. "One doesn't notice
the air of strain over on the Continent, because it's the same
everywhere, but it gets a little on one's nerves, all the same. I
positively love it here."

"It's fine to have you," was the hearty response. "Gee, that fellow
coming to the sixteenth hole can play some!"

Pamela directed her attention idly towards the figure which her brother
indicated--a man in light tweeds, who played with an easy and graceful
swing, and with the air of one to whom the game presented no
difficulties whatever. She watched him drive for the seventeenth--a
long, raking ball, fully fifty yards further than his opponent's--
watched him play a perfect mashie shot to the green and hole out in
three.

"A birdie," James Van Teyl murmured. "I say, Pamela!"

She took no notice. Her eyes were still following the figure of the
golfer. She watched him drive at the last hole, play a chip shot on to
the green, and hit the hole for a three. The frown deepened upon her
forehead. She was looking very uncompromising when the two men ascended
the steps.

"I didn't know, Mr. Lutchester, that there were any factories down this
way," she remarked severely, as he paused before her in surprise.

For a single moment she fancied that she saw a flash of annoyance in
his eyes. It was gone so swiftly, however, that she remained uncertain.
He held out his hand, laughing.

"Fairly caught out, Miss Van Teyl," he confessed. "You see, I was
tempted, and I fell."

His companion, an elderly, clean-shaven man, passed on. Pamela glanced
after him.

"Who is your opponent?" she asked.

"Just some one I picked up on the tee," Lutchester explained. "How is
our friend Fischer this morning?"

"I walked with him for an hour in the Park," Pamela replied. "He seemed
quite cheerful. I have scarcely thanked you yet for returning the
pocketbook, have I?"

His face was inscrutable.

"Couldn't keep a thing that didn't belong to me, could I?" he observed.

"You have a marvellous gift for discovering lost property," she
murmured.

"For discovering the owners, you mean," he retorted, with a little bow.

"You're some golfer, I see, Mr. Lutchester," Van Teyl interposed.

"I was on my game to-day," Lutchester admitted. "With a little luck at
the seventh," he continued earnestly, "I might have tied the amateur
record. You see, my ball--but there, I mustn't bore you now. I must
look after my opponent and stand him a drink. We shall meet again, I
daresay."

Lutchester passed on, and Pamela glanced up at her brother.

"Is he a sphinx or a fool?" she whispered.

"Don't ask me," Van Teyl replied. "Seems to me you were a bit rough on
him, anyway. I don't see why the fellow shouldn't have a day's holiday
before he gets to work. If I had his swing, it would interfere with my
career, I know that, well enough."

"Did you recognise the man with whom he was playing?" Pamela inquired.

"Can't say that I did. His face seems familiar, too."

"Go and see if you can find out his name," Pamela begged. "It isn't
ordinary curiosity. I really want to know."

"That's easy enough," Van Teyl replied, rising from his place. "And
I'll order tea at the same time."

Pamela leaned a little further back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to be
fixed upon the pleasant prospect of wooded slopes and green,
upward-stretching sward. As a matter of fact, she saw only two faces--
Fischer's and Lutchester's. Her chief impulse in life for the immediate
present seemed to have resolved itself into a fierce, almost a
passionate curiosity. It was the riddle of those two brains which she
was so anxious to solve. ... Fischer, the cold, subtle intriguer, with
schemes at the back of his mind which she knew quite well that, even in
the moment of his weakness, he intended to keep to himself; and
Lutchester, with his almost cynical devotion to pleasure, yet with his
unaccountable habit of suggesting a strength and qualities to which he
neither laid nor established any claim. Of the two men it was
Lutchester who piqued her, with whom she would have found more pleasure
in the battle of wits. She found herself alternately furious and
puzzled with him, yet her uneasiness concerning him possessed more
disquieting, more fascinating possibilities than any of the emotions
inspired by the other man.

Van Teyl returned to her presently, a little impressed.

"Thought I knew that chap's face," he observed. "It's Eli Hamblin--
Senator Hamblin, you know."

"A friend and confidant of the President," she murmured. "A Westerner,
too. I wonder what he's doing here ... Jimmy!"

"Hallo, Sis?"

"You've just got to be a dear," Pamela begged. "Go to the caddy master,
or professional, or some one, and find out whether Mr. Lutchester met
him here by accident or whether they arrived together."

"You'll turn me into a regular sleuthhound," he laughed. "However, here
goes."

He strolled off again, and Pamela found herself forced to become
mundane and frivolous whilst she chatted with some newly-arrived
acquaintances. It was not until some little time after her brother's
return that she found herself alone with him.

"Well?" she asked eagerly.

"They arrived within a few minutes of one another," Van Teyl announced.
"Senator Hamblin bought a couple of new balls and made some inquiries
about the course, but said nothing about playing. Lutchester, who
appears not to have known him, came up later and asked him if he'd like
a game. That's all I could find out."

Pamela pointed to a little cloud of dust in the distance.

"And there they go," she observed, "together."

Van Teyl threw himself into a chair and accepted the cup of tea which
his sister handed him.

"Well," he inquired, "what do you make of it?"

"There's more in that question than you think, James," Pamela replied.
"All the same, I think I shall be able to answer it in a few days."

Another little crowd of acquaintances discovered them, and Pamela was
soon surrounded by a fresh group of admirers. They all went out
presently to inspect the new tennis courts. Pamela and her brother were
beset with invitations.

"You positively must stay down and dine with us, and go home by
moonlight," Mrs. Saunders, a lively young matron with a large country
house close by, insisted. "Jimmy's neglected me terribly these last few
months, and as for you, Pamela, I haven't seen you for a year."

"I'd love to if we can," Pamela assured her, "but Jimmy will have to
telephone first."

"Then do be quick about it," Mrs. Saunders begged, "It doesn't matter a
bit about clothes. We've twenty people staying in the house now, and
half of us won't change, if that makes you more comfortable. Jimmy, if
you fail at that telephone I'll never forgive you."

But Van Teyl, who had caught the little motion of his sister's head
towards the city, proved equal to the occasion. He returned presently,
driving the car.

"Got to go," he announced as he made his farewells. "Can't be helped,
Pamela. Frightfully sorry, Mrs. Saunders, we are wanted up in New
York."

Pamela sighed.

"I was so afraid of it," she regretted as she waved her adieux. . . . .

An hour or so later the city broke before them in murky waves. Pamela,
who had been leaning back in the car, deep in thought, sat up.

"You are a perfect dear, James," she said. "Do you think you could
stand having Mr. Fischer to dinner one evening this week?"

"Sure!" he replied, a little curiously. "If you want to keep friends
with him for any reason, I don't bear him any ill-will."

"I just want to talk to him," Pamela murmured, "that's all."




CHAPTER XVIII


There was a ripple of interest and a good deal of curiosity that
afternoon, in the lounge and entrance hall of the Hotel Plaza, when a
tall, grey-moustached gentleman of military bearing descended from the
automobile which had brought him from the station, and handed in his
name at the desk, inquiring for Mr. Fischer.

"Will you send my name up--the Baron von Schwerin," he directed.

The clerk, who had recognised the newcomer, took him under his personal
care.

"Mr. Fischer is up in his rooms, expecting you, Baron," he announced.
"If you'll come this way, I'll take you up."

The Baron followed his guide to the lift and along the corridor to the
suite of rooms occupied by Mr. Fischer and his young friend, James Van
Teyl. Mr. Fischer himself opened the door. The two men clasped hands
cordially, and the clerk discreetly withdrew.

"Back with us once more, Fischer," Von Schwerin exclaimed fervently.
"You are wonderful. Tell me," he added, looking around, "we are to be
alone here?"

"Absolutely," Fischer replied. "The young man I share these apartments
with--James Van Teyl--has taken his sister out to Baltusrol. They will
not be back until seven o'clock. We are sure of solitude."

"Good!" Von Schwerin exclaimed. "And you have news--I can see it in
your face."

Fischer rolled up easy chairs and produced a box of cigars.

"Yes," he assented, with a little glitter in his eyes, "I have news.
Things have moved with me. I think that, with the help of an idiotic
Englishman, we shall solve the riddle of what our professors have
called the consuming explosive. I sent the formula home to Germany, by
a trusty hand, only a few hours ago."

"Capital!" Von Schwerin declared. "It was arranged in London, that?"

"Partly in London and partly here," Fischer replied.

Von Schwerin made a grimace.

"If you can find those who are willing to help you here, you are
fortunate indeed," he sighed. "My life's work has lain amongst these
people. In the days of peace, all seemed favourable to us. Since the
war, even those people whom I thought my friends seem to have lost
their heads, to have lost their reasoning powers."

"After all," Fischer muttered, "it is race calling to race. But come,
we have more direct business on hand. Nikasti is here."

Von Schwerin nodded a little gloomily.

"Washington knows nothing of his coming," he observed. "I attended the
Baron Yung's reception last week, informally. I threw out very broad
hints, but Yung would not be drawn. Nikasti represents the Secret
Service of Japan, unofficially and without responsibility."

"Nevertheless," Fischer pointed out, "what he says will reach the ear
of his country, and reach it quickly. You've gone through the papers I
sent you?"

"Carefully," Von Schwerin replied. "And the autograph letter?"

"That I have," Fischer announced. "I will fetch Nikasti."

He crossed the room and opened the door leading into the bedchambers.

"Are you there, Kato?" he cried.

"I am coming, sir," was the instant reply.

Nikasti appeared, a few moments later. He was carrying a dress coat on
his arm, and he held a clothes brush in his hand. It was obvious that
he had studied with nice care the details of his new part.

"You can sit down, Nikasti," Fischer invited. "This is the Baron von
Schwerin. He has something to say to you."

Nikasti bowed very low. He declined the chair, however, to which
Fischer pointed.

"I am your valet and the valet of Mr. Van Teyl," he murmured. "It is
not fitting for me to be seated. I listen."

Von Schwerin drew his chair a little nearer.

"I plunge at once," he said, "into the middle of things. There is
always the fear that we may be disturbed."

Nikasti inclined his head.

"It is best," he agreed.

"You are aware," Von Schwerin continued, "that the Imperial Government
of Germany has already made formal overtures, through a third party, to
the Emperor of Japan with reference to an alteration in our relations?"

"There was talk of this in Tokio," Nikasti observed softly. "Japan,
however, is under obligations--treaty obligations. Her honour demands
that these should be kept."

"The honour of a country," Baron von Schwerin acknowledged, "is,
without doubt, a sacred charge upon her rulers, but above all things in
heaven or on earth, the interests of her people must be their first
consideration. If a time should come when the two might seem to clash,
then it is the task of the statesman to recognise this fact."

Nikasti bowed.

"It is spoken," he confessed, "like a great man."

"Your country," Von Schwerin continued, "is at war with mine because it
seemed to her rulers that her interests lay with the Allies rather than
with Germany. I will admit that my country was at fault. We did not
recognise to its full extent the value of friendship with Japan. We did
not bid high enough for your favours. Asia concerned us very little. We
looked upon the destruction of our interests there in the same spirit
as that with which we contemplated the loss of our colonies. All that
might happen would be temporary. Our influence in Asia, our colonies,
will remain with us or perish, according to the result of the war in
Europe. But our statesmen overlooked one thing."

"Our factories," Nikasti murmured.

"Precisely! We have had our agents all over the world for years. Some
are good, a few are easily deceived. There is no country in the world
where apparently so much liberty is granted to foreigners as in Japan.
There is no country where the capacity for manufacture and output has
been so grossly underestimated by our agents, as yours."

Nikasti smiled.

"I had something to do with that," he announced. "It was Karl Neumann,
was it not, on whom you relied? I supplied him with much information."

Von Schwerin's face clouded for a moment.

"You mean that you fooled him, I suppose," he said. "Well, it is all
part of the game. That is over now. We want your exports to Russia
stopped."

"Ah!" Nikasti murmured reflectively. "Stopped!"

"We ask no favours," Von Schwerin continued. "The issue of the war is
written across the face of the skies for those who care to read."

Nikasti looked downwards at the dress coat which he was carrying. Then
he glanced up at Von Schwerin.

"Perhaps our eyes have been dazzled," he said. "Will you not
interpret?"

"The end of the war will be a peace of exhaustion," Von Schwerin
explained. "Our loftier dreams of conquest we must abandon. Germany has
played her part, but Austria, alas! has failed. Peace will leave us all
very much where we were. Very well, then, I ask you, what has Japan
gained? You answer China? I deny it. Yet even if it were true, it will
take you five hundred years to make a great country of China. Suppose
for a moment you had been on the other side. What about Australia?...
New Zealand?"

"Are those things under present consideration?" Nikasti queried.

"Why not?" Von Schwerin replied. "Listen. Close your exports to Russia
within the next thirty days. Build up for yourselves a stock of
ammunition, add to your fleet, and prepare. Within a year of the
cessation of war, there is no reason why your national dream should not
be realised. Your fleet may sail for San Francisco. The German fleet
shall make a simultaneous attack upon the eastern coast of
Massachusetts and New York."

"The German fleet," Nikasti repeated. "And England?"

Von Schwerin's eyes flashed for a moment.

"If the English fleet is still in being," he declared, "it will be a
crippled and defeated fleet, but, for the sake of your point of view, I
will assume that it exists. Even then there will be nothing to prevent
the German fleet from steaming in what waters it pleases. If our shells
fall upon New York on the day when your warships are sighted off the
Californian coast, do you suppose that America could resist? With her
seaboard, her fleet is contemptible. For her wealth, her army is a
farce. She has neglected for a great many years to pay her national
insurance. She is the one country in the world who can be bled for the
price of empires."

Fischer, who had been smoking furiously, spat out the end of a fresh
cigar.

"It will be a just retribution," he interposed, with smothered
fierceness. "Under the guise of neutrality, America has been
responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands of my countrymen.
That we never can, we never shall, forget. The wealth which makes these
people fat is blood-money, and Germany will take her vengeance."

"For whom do you speak?" Nikasti inquired.

Von Schwerin rose from his place.

"For the greatest of all."

"Do I take anything but words to Tokio?" the Japanese asked softly.

Fischer unfolded a pocketbook and drew from it a parchment envelope.

"You take this letter," he said, "which I brought over myself from
Berlin, signed and written not more than three weeks ago. I ask you to
believe in no vague promises. I bring you the pledged faith of the
greatest ruler on earth. What do you say, Nikasti? Will you accept our
mission? Will you go back to Tokio and see the Emperor?"

Nikasti bowed.

"I will go back," he promised. "I will sail as soon as I can make
arrangements. But I cannot tell you what the issue may be. We Japanese
are not a self-seeking nation. Above and higher than all things are our
ideals and our honour. I cannot tell what answer our Sovereign may give
to this."

"These are the days when the truest patriotism demands the most sublime
sacrifices," Von Schwerin declared. "Above all the ethics of
individuals comes the supreme necessity of self-preservation."

The Japanese smiled slightly.

"Ah!" he said, "there speaks the philosophy of your country, Baron, the
paean of materialism."

"The destinies of nations," Baron von Schwerin exclaimed, "are above
the man-made laws of a sentimental religion! One needs, nowadays, more
than to survive. It is necessary to flourish."

Nikasti stood suddenly to attention.

"It is Mr. Van Teyl who returns," he warned them.

He glided from the room, shaking out a little the dress coat which he
had been carrying. The two men looked after him. Fischer threw his
cigar savagely away and lit another.

"Curse these orientals!" he muttered. "They listen and listen, and one
never knows. Van Teyl won't be here for hours. That was just an excuse
to get away."

But there was a smile of triumph on Von Schwerin's lips.

"I know them better than you do, Fischer," he declared. "Nikasti is our
man!"




CHAPTER XIX


High up in one of the topmost chambers of the Hotel Plaza, Nikasti,
after his conference with Von Schwerin and Fischer, sought solitude. He
opened the high windows, out of which he could scarcely see, dragged up
a chest of drawers and perched himself, Oriental fashion, on the top,
his long yellow fingers intertwined around his knees, his soft brown
eyes gazing over the wooded slopes of the Park. He was away from the
clamour of tongues, from the poisoned clouds of sophistry, even from
the disturbance of his own thoughts, incited by specious arguments to
some form of reciprocity. Here he sat in the clouds and searched for
the true things. His eyes seemed to be travelling over the battlefields
of Europe. He saw the swaying fortunes of mighty armies, he looked into
council chambers, he seemed to feel the pulses of the great world force
which kept going this most amazing Juggernaut. He saw the furnaces of
Japan, blazing by night and day; saw the forms of hundreds of thousands
of his fellow creatures bent to their task; saw the streams of ships
leaving his ports, laden down with stores; saw the great guns speeding
across Siberia, the endless trains of ammunition, the rifles, food for
the famine-stricken giants who beat upon the air with empty fists. He
saw the gold come streaming back. He saw it poured into the banks, the
pockets of the merchants, the homes of his people. He saw brightening
days throughout the land. He saw the slow but splendid strength of the
nation rejoicing in its new possibilities. And beyond that, what?
Wealth was the great means towards the great end, but if the great end
were once lost sight of, there was no more hideous poison than that
stream of enervating prosperity. He remembered his own diatribes
concerning the decadence of England; how he had pointed to the gold
poison, to the easy living of the poor, the blatant luxury of the rich.
He had pointed to the soft limbs, the cities which had become pools of
sensuality, to the daily life which, calling for no effort, had seen
the passing of the spirit and the triumph of the gross. And what about
his own people? Mankind was the same the world over. The gold which was
bringing strength and life to the nation might very soon exude the same
poisonous fumes, might very soon be laying its thrall upon a people to
whom living had become an easier thing. However it might be for other,
the Western nations, for his own he firmly believed that war alone,
with its thousand privations, its call to the chivalry of his people,
was the one great safeguard. China! The days had gone by when the
taking of China could inspire. It was to greater things they must look.
Australia. New Zealand! Had any Western race the right to flaunt her
Empire's flag in Asiatic seas? And America! Once again he felt the slow
rising of wrath as he recalled the insults of past years ... the
adventurous sons of his country treated like savages and negroes by
that uncultured, strong-limbed race of coarse-fibered, unimaginative
materialists. There was a call, indeed, to the soul of his country to
avenge, to make safe, the homes and lives of her colonists. Across the
seas he looked into the council chambers of the wise men of his race.
He saw the men whose word would tell. He watched their faces turned
towards him, waiting; heard the beginning of the conflict of thoughts
and minds--blind fidelity to the cause which they had espoused, or a
rougher, more splendid, more selfish stroke for the greatness of Japan
and Japan only. "If we break our faith we lose our honour," one
murmured. "There is no honour save the care of my people," he heard one
of his greatest countrymen reply.

So he sat and thought, revolved in his mind arguments, morals,
philosophy. It was the problem which had confronted the great Emperor,
his own ancestor, who had lived for three months on the floor of the
Temple, asking but one question of the Silent Powers: "Through what
gate shall I lead my

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