by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XXVII
YELLOW CIGARETTES
In our pursuit of the fantastic being, about whom so many mysteriesgathered, we have somewhat neglected the affairs of Sir RichardHaredale. Thanks to Mr. Belford's elusive visitor, these now ransmoothly.
In order to learn how smoothly we have only to present ourselves at acertain important social function.
"These military weddings are so romantic," gushed Mrs. Rohscheimer.
"And so beastly stuffy," added her husband, mopping his damp brow with asilk handkerchief bearing, in gold thread, the monogram "J. R."
"Doesn't Dick look real sweet?" whispered Lady Vignoles, following withadmiring eyes the soldierly figure of the bridegroom, Sir RichardHaredale.
Lord Vignoles shouldered his way through the scrum about the door.
"I say, Sheila," he called to his wife, "where's Zoe?"
"She was here a minute ago," replied Julius Rohscheimer, rolling hisprominent eyes about in quest of the missing one.
"I mean to say," explained Vignoles, "her father is asking----"
"What! Has uncle turned up after all?" exclaimed Lady Vignoles, andlooked quickly towards the door.
Through the crowd a big red-faced man was forging, and behind him aglimpse might be had of the shrivelled shape of John Jacob Oppner.
"Hallo," grunted Rohscheimer, "here's Inspector Sheffield, from ScotlandYard!"--and apprehensively he fingered tie-pin and watch-chain, andfurtively counted the rings upon his fat fingers. "What's up?"
The shrewd but not unkindly eyes of the C. I. D. man were scanning thepacked rooms, over the heads of the crowd--keenly, suspiciously. With abrief nod he passed the group, and pressed on his way. Mr. Oppnerhalted.
"What's the trouble, Oppner?" inquired Rohscheimer thickly. "Is there athief here or something?"
"Worse!" drawled the other. "Severac Bablon's here!"
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Rohscheimer, and surreptitiously slipped all hisrings off and into his trousers pocket. "Let's get out before we're allheld up!"
"He don't figure on a hold-up," replied Oppner; "it ain't a strong lineat a matinee. A hop-parade is the time for the crystals. We don't knowwhat he's layin' for, but it's a cinch he's here."
"How do you know?" asked a brother officer of Haredale's, who had joinedthe group.
Mr. Oppner took a cigarette-case from his tail-pocket and held upbetween finger and thumb a cigarette stump of an unusual yellow colour.
"We've got on his trail at last!" he said. "He sheds these cigs. like amoulting chicken sheds feathers. This one was in the tray inside ataxi--and the taxi dropped his fare right here!"
He returned the cigarette stump to the case, the case to his pocket, andpushed on after Sheffield. As his stooping form disappeared from viewSheard entered the room. Immediately he was claimed by Mr. Rohscheimer.
"Hallo, Sheard!" called the financier, and for the moment even theimminence of the Severac Bablon peril was forgotten--"what's the latest?Is war declared?"
"There was nothing official up to the time I left," replied thepressman; "but we are expecting it every minute. Mr. Belford and LordEvershed have just been summoned to Buckingham Palace. I met them goingas I came in."
Rohscheimer confidently seized the lapel of the journalist's coat.
"What do you think that means, now?" he asked cunningly.
"It means," replied Sheard, "that within the hour Europe may be in arms!Haredale is on duty this evening--so there will be no honeymoon!Everything is at sixes and sevens. I have a couple of cubs watching; andif Baron Hecht, when he leaves the conference at the Palace, proceedshome, there may be no war. If he starts for Victoria Station--war isdeclared!"
An excited young lady wearing pince-nez, through which she peeredanxiously in quest of someone, tapping her rather prominent front teeththe while with an HB pencil, sighted Sheard.
"Oh, there you are!" she cried, in evident relief. "Really, Mr. Sheard,I was despairing of finding _anyone_ to tell me--but you always knoweverything."
Sheard bowed ironically. The lady represented one of the oldest familiesin Warwichshire and the Fashionable Intelligence of quite the smartestmorning journal in London.
"Sir Richard's best man----" she began again.
"Didn't you know?" burst in Lord Vignoles. "Bally nuisance--I mean tosay, inconsiderate of Roxborough; he could have sent some othermessenger, and need not have picked Anerly."
"Oh! I know all about that!" snapped the lady impatiently; "but who wasthe distinguished-looking man who took Maurice's place?"
The Hon. Maurice Anerly, who should have officiated as best man, hadreceived instructions an hour before the ceremony to proceed to thecapital of the Power with whom Britain was on the verge of war. Sheardwould have given a hundred pounds for a glimpse of the dispatch hecarried.
"No idea," said Vignoles; "most amazing thing! Friend of Haredale's, whoturned up at the last minute and vanished directly the ceremony wasover. Perfect record! Don't suppose it's ever happened before."
"But he came to the house here; several people saw him here. You don'twant me to believe that Dick Haredale didn't tell anybody who his bestman was!"
"I was not present," said Sheard; "so I cannot help you."
"It's preposterous!" cried the lady. "I never heard of such a thing!"
"What was the gentleman like, miss?" came a quiet voice.
The eyes of all in the little group turned, together. Chief InspectorSheffield had joined them.
The lady addressed eyed the big man apprehensively. He was outside theexperience of Fashionable Intelligence, but there was a quiet authorityin his voice and manner which seemed to call for a reply.
"He was the most handsome man I have ever seen!" she answered briefly.
"Thank you!" said Sheffield, with even greater brevity, and turned onhis heel.
He went up to a footman, who looked more like a clean-shavenpoliceman--possibly because he was one.
"You are certain that Miss Oppner and the man I have described actuallyentered this house?"
"They were talking together in that room by the statue, sir."
"And Miss Oppner came out?"
"Yes, sir."
"But not the man?"
"No, sir."
Inspector Sheffield made his way to the little anteroom indicated. Itwas quite a tiny apartment, with a divan, two lounge-chairs and aPersian coffee-table. There was no one there.
A faint but very peculiar perfume hung in the air. Turkish tobacco wentto the making of it, but something else too. Sheffield bent over thetable.
In a little bronze ash-tray lay a cigarette end--yellow in colour.
* * * * *
At about the same moment that Chief Inspector Sheffield was trying toget used to the idea of the notorious Severac Bablon's having actuallyofficiated as best man at the wedding of the only daughter of theMarquess of Evershed, Mr. Thomas Sheard also had that astounding factbrought home to him.
For, in the wide publicity of Eccleston Square, the observed of manycurious observers, Zoe Oppner stood shaking hands with this master ofaudacity.
Sheard joined them hurriedly.
"This is the height of indiscretion!" he exclaimed, glancingapprehensively about him. "You compromise others----"
Severac Bablon checked him with a quiet smile.
"Have I ever compromised another?"
"But now you cannot avoid doing so. Sheffield is inside! What madnessbrings you here?"
"In the absence of the Hon. Maurice Anerly, I acted as Haredale's bestman."
Sheard literally gasped.
"But you are not----"
"A Christian? My religious beliefs, Sheard, do not preclude myattendance at a wedding ceremony. Some day I may explain this to you."
"You must have been recognised!"
"Who knows Severac Bablon?"
"At least four people now in that house!"
"Possibly. But no one of those four has seen me. No one of them waspresent
at the ceremony; and, I assure you, I made myself scarceafterwards."
"You must hurry. You have been traced----"
"Never fear; I shall hurry. But, before I go, Sheard, take thisenvelope. It is the last 'scoop' that I have to offer to the _Gleaner_,but it is the biggest of all! Good-bye."
"Do I understand that you are leaving England?"
So sincere was the emotion in the pressman's voice that Severac Bablon'sown had changed when he replied:
"We may never meet again; I cannot tell."
He laid his hands upon the other's shoulders in a characteristicgesture, and to Sheard, as he met the glance of those fine eyes, thiswas no criminal flying from justice; rather, a ruler of peoples, anenthusiast, a fanatic perhaps, but a royal man--and his friend.
"Good-bye!" said Severac Bablon, and clasped Sheard's hand in both hisown.
He turned to Zoe Oppner, who, very pale, was glancing back at the house.
"Good-bye again!"
A cab waited, and Severac Bablon, lighting a cigarette, leapt in and wasdriven away. Sheard did not hear his directions to the man; and ZoeOppner left him abruptly and ran into the house again. Before he hadtime to move, to collect his thoughts, a heavy hand was laid upon hisshoulder.
He started. Inspector Sheffield stood beside him.
"Who was in that cab?" he rapped.
Sheard realised that the moment to which he had long looked forward withdread was come. He had been caught red-handed. At last Severac Bablonhad dared too greatly, and he, Sheard, must pay the price of thatindiscretion.
"Why do you ask--and in that tone?"
"Mr. Sheard," said the detective grimly, "I've had my eye on you for along while, as you must be well aware. You may not be aware that but forme you'd have been arrested long ago! I'm past the time when sensationalarrests appeal to me, though. I'm out to hide scandals, not to turn thelimelight on 'em. You're a well-known man, and it would break you, Itake it, if I hauled you up for complicity? But I've got myresponsibilities, too, remember; and I warn you--I warn you solemnly--ifyou bandy words with me now, I'll have you in Marlborough Street insideten minutes!"
The buttons were off, and Sheard felt the point at his throat. For therewas no mistaking the grim earnestness of the man from Scotland Yard. Thekindly blue eyes were grown hard as steel, and in them the pressman readthat upon his next words rested his whole career. A lie could avail hisfriend nothing; it meant his own ruin.
"Severac Bablon!" he said.
"I knew that!" replied Sheffield; "you did well to admit it! Where hashe gone?"
"I have no idea."
"Don't take any chances, sir! I'm tired of the responsibility ofshielding the fools who know him! If you give me your word on that, I'lltake it."
"I give you my word. I was unable to hear his directions to the driver."
"Very good. There are other things I might ask you--but I know you'drefuse to answer, and then I'd have no alternative. So I won't.Good-day."
"Good-day, Inspector. And thank you." Sheffield nodded shortly andwalked up to the driver of the next waiting cab.
"What number was the man who drove away last?"
"LH-00896, sir."
"Know where he went?"
"No, sir; but not far. He told a pal o' mine--the chauffeur of Mr.Rohscheimer's car, there, sir--that he'd be back in seven minutes."
"Good!" said Sheffield.
Matters were befalling as well as he could have hoped; for he had comeout too late to have followed the cab. He glanced at his watch. Providedthe man picked up no fare on his way back, he was due in three minutes.The detective strolled off towards Belgrave Road. Inside the threeminutes a cab turned into the other end of the square.
Inspector Sheffield retraced his steps hurriedly.
Without a word to the man, he opened the cab door. A faint, familiarperfume reached his nostrils. He glanced at the ash-trays, but neithercontained a cigarette end. He turned to the driver.
"Where did you take the gentleman you picked up here, my man?"
A newsboy came racing along the pavement, with an armful of sheets, wetfrom the press. The journal was the _Gleaner's_ most powerful opponent.
"War de-clared, piper! War de-clared, speshul!"
His shrill cries drowned the taximan's reply. As the boy ran on cryinghis mendacious "news" (for the front-page article was not headed "Wardeclared," but "Is war declared?"), Sheffield repeated his question.
"To Buckingham Palace, sir!" he was answered.
The detective stared incredulously.
"I mean a tall gentleman, clean shaven, and very dark, with quite blackhair----"
"Smoked some sort of Russian smokes, sir--yellow?"
"That one--yes!"
"That's the one I mean, sir--Buckingham Palace!"
Sheffield continued to stare.
"Where did you actually drop him?"
"At the gate."
"Well? Where did he go?"
"He went in, sir!"
"Went in! He was admitted?"
"Yes, sir; I saw him pass the sentry!"
Chief Inspector Sheffield leapt into the cab with a face grimly set.
"Buckingham Palace!" he snapped.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Harborne, following back the clue of theyellow cigarettes, in accordance with the instructions of his superior,who had elected to follow it forward, made his way to a cab-rank at theend of Finchley Road.
To a cab-minder he showed a photograph. It was from that unique negativewhich the Home Secretary had shown to the pseudo-Inspector Sheffield atWomsley Old Place; moreover, it was the only copy which the righthonourable gentleman had authorised to be printed.
"Does this person often take cabs from this rank, my lad?"
The man surveyed it with beer-weakened eyes.
"Mr. Sanrack it is, guv'nor! Yes, he's often here!"
Harborne, who was a believer in the straightforward British methods, andwho scorned alike the unnecessary subtlety of the French school, asrepresented by Lemage or Duquesne, and the Fenimore-Cooper-like tacticsdear to the men of the American agencies, showed his card.
"What's his address?" he snapped.
"It's farther down on this side; I can't think of the number, sir,"replied the other shakily. (The proximity of a police officer alwaysinjuriously affected his heart.) "But I can show you the 'ouse."
"Come on!" ordered Harborne. "Walk behind me; and when I pass it,whistle."
Off went the detective without delay, and walked briskly along theFinchley Road. He had proceeded more than half-way, when, as he cameabreast of a gate set in a high wall, from his rear quavered a moistwhistle.
"70A," he muttered. "Right-oh!"
He thrilled with the joy of the chase, anticipating the triumph thatawaited him. Inspector Sheffield's pursuit was more than likely to provefutile, but Severac Bablon, he argued, was practically certain to returnto his head-quarters sooner or later.
He thought of the weeks and months during which they had sought for thisvery house in vain; of the useless tracking of divers persons known tobe acquainted with the man of mystery; of the simple means--the yellowcigarettes--by which, at last, they had come to it.
Mr. Aloys. X Alden had been very reticent of late--and Mr. Oppner knewof the cigarette clue. At that reflection the roseate horizon grewdarkened by the figure of a triumphant American holding up SeveracBablon with a neat silver-plated model by Smith and Wesson. If Aldenshould forestall him!
Harborne, who had been pursuing these reflections whilst, within sightof No. 70A, he stood slowly loading his pipe, paused, pouch in hand. Onone memorable occasion, the super-subtlety of Sheffield (who was taintedwith French heresies) had led to a fiasco which had made them thelaughing-stock of Scotland Yard. Harborne felt in his breast pocket,where there reposed a copy of the warrant for the arrest of SeveracBablon. And before he withdrew his hand his mind was made up. He was aman of indomitable pluck.
Walking brisk
ly to the gate in the high wall, he opened it, passedaround a very neat little lawn, and stood in the porch of 70A. As heglanced about for bell or knocker, and failed to find either, the doorwas opened quietly by a tall man in black--an Arab.
"I have important business with Mr. Sanrack," said Harborne quietly, andhanded the Arab a card which simply bore the name: "Mr. Goodson."
"He is not at home, but expected," replied the man, in guttural English."Will Mr. Goodson await?"
"Yes," said Harborne, "if Mr. Sanrack won't be long."
The Arab bowed, and conducted him to a small but cosy room, furnishedsimply but with great good taste--and withdrew. Harborne congratulatedhimself. The simple and direct, if old-fashioned, methods were, afterall, the best.
It was a very silent house. That fact struck him at once. Listenintently as he would, no sound from within could he detect. What shouldbe his next move?
He stepped to the door and looked out into the hall. This was rathernarrow, and, owing to the presence of heavy Oriental drapings, verydark. It would suit his purpose admirably. Directly "Mr. Sanrack" camein he would spring upon him and get the handcuffs fast, then he couldthrow open the front door, if there had been time for anyone to recloseit, and summon assistance with his whistle.
He himself must effect the actual arrest--single-handed. He carednothing who came upon the scene after that. He placed the handcuffs in amore convenient pocket, and buttoned up his double-breasted blue sergecoat.
Sheffield was certain to be Superintendent before long; and it onlyrequired one other big case, such as this, to insure Harborne'ssuccession to an Inspectorship. From thence to the office vacated bySheffield was an easy step for a competent and ambitious man.
How silent the house was!
Harborne glanced at his watch. He had been waiting nearly five minutes.Scarce another two had elapsed--when a brisk step sounded on the gravel.The detective braced himself for a spring. Would he have the Arab tocontend with too?
No. A key was slipped into the well-oiled lock. The door opened.
With something of the irresistible force of a charging bull,Detective-Sergeant Harborne hurled himself upon his man.
Human strength had been useless to oppose that attack; but by subtletyit was frustrated. The man stepped agilely aside--and Harborne reclosedthe door with his head! That his skull withstood that crashing blow wasmiraculous; but he was of tough stock. Perhaps the ruling passion helpedhim, for dazed and dizzy as he was, he did the right thing when hiscunning opponent leapt upon him from behind.
He threw his hands above his shoulders and grasped the man round theneck--then--slowly--shakily--his head swimming and the world a hugeteetotum--he rose upon his knees. Bent well forward, he rose to hisfeet. The other choked, swore, struck useless blows, but hung limply,helpless, in that bear-like, awful grip.
At the exact moment--no second too soon, no second too late--down wentHarborne's right hand to the wriggling, kicking, right foot of the manupon whom he had secured that dreadful hold. A bend forward--a turn ofthe hip--and his man fell crashing to the floor.
"That's called the Cornish grip!" panted the detective, dropping all hisheaviness upon the recumbent form.
_Click! Click!_
The handcuffed man wriggled into a sitting posture.
"You goddarned son of a skunk!" he gurgled--and stopped short--sat,white-faced, manacled, looking up at his captor.
"Jumpin' Jenkins!" he whispered--"it's that plug-headed guy, Harborne!"
"Alden!" cried Harborne. "Alden! What the----!"
"Same to you!" snarled the Agency man. "Call yourself a detective! Ireckon you'd make a better show as a coal-heaver!"
When conversation--if not civil conversation, at least conversationwhich did not wholly consist in mutual insult--became possible, the twoin that silent hall compared notes.
"Where in the name of wonder did you get the key?" demanded Harborne.
"House agent!" snapped the other. "I work on the lines that I'm after aclever man, not trying to round up a herd of bullocks!"
Revolvers in readiness, they searched the house. No living thing was tobe found. Only one room was unfurnished. It opened off the hall, and wason a lower level. The floor was paved and the walls plastered. Anunglazed window opened on a garden, and a deep recess opposite to thedoor held only shadows and emptiness.
"It's a darned pie-trap!" muttered Mr. Aloys. X. Alden. "And you and meare the pies properly!"
"But d'you mean to say he's going to leave all this furniture----!"
"Hired!" snapped the American. "Hired! I knew that before I came!"
Detective-Sergeant Harborne raised a hand to his throbbing head--andsank dizzily into a cushioned hall-seat.
CHAPTER XXVIII
AT THE PALACE--AND LATER
How self-centred is man, and how darkly do his own petty interestsovershadow the giant things of life. Thrones may totter and fall,monarchs pass to the limbo of memories, whilst we wrestle with anintractable collar-stud. Had another than Inspector Sheffield beendriving to Buckingham Palace that day, he might have found his soulattuned to the martial tone about him; for "War! War!" glared fromcountless placards, and was cried aloud by countless newsboys. War wasin the air. Nothing else, it seemed, was thought of, spoken of, sung of.
But Sheffield at that time was quite impervious to the subtle influenceswhich had inspired music-hall song writers to pour forth patrioticlyrics; which had adorned the button-holes of sober citizens withminiature Union Jacks. For him the question of the hour was: "Shall Icapture Severac Bablon?"
He reviewed, in the space of a few seconds, the whole bewildering case,from the time when this incomprehensible man had robbed Park Lane toscatter wealth broadcast upon the Embankment up to the present momentwhen, it would appear, having acted as best man at a Society wedding, henow was within the precincts of Buckingham Palace.
It was the boast of Severac Bablon, as Sheffield knew, that no door wasclosed to him. Perhaps that boast was no idle one. Who was SeveracBablon? Inspector Sheffield, who had asked himself that question manymonths before, when he stood in the British Museum before the emptypedestal which once had held the world-famed head of Caesar, asked itagain now. Alas! it was a question to which he had no answer.
The cab stopped in front of Buckingham Palace.
Sheffield paid the man and walked up to the gates. He was not unknown tothose who sat in high places, having been chosen to command the secretbodyguard of Royalty during one protracted foreign tour. An unassumingman, few of his acquaintances, perhaps, knew that he shared with theLord Mayor of London the privilege of demanding audience at any hour ofthe day or night.
It was a privilege which hitherto he had never exercised. He exercisedit now.
Some five minutes later he found himself in an antechamber, and by themurmur of voices which proceeded from that direction he knew a drapedcurtain alone separated him from a hastily summoned conference. A smellof cigar smoke pervaded the apartment.
Suddenly, he became quite painfully nervous. Was it intended that heshould hear so much? Short of pressing his fingers to his ears, he hadno alternative.
"We had all along desired that amicable relations be maintained in thismatter, Baron."
That was the Marquess of Evershed. Sheffield knew his voice well.
"It has not appeared so from your attitude, Marquess!"
Whom could that be? Probably Baron Hecht.
"Your intense patriotism, your admirable love of country, Baron, has ledyou to misconstrue, as affronts, actions designed to promote ourfriendly relations."
Only one man in England possessed the suave, polished delivery of thelast speaker--the Right Honourable Walter Belford.
"I have misconstrued nothing; my instructions have been explicit."
"Fortunately, no further occasion exists for you to carry them out."
Sheffield knew that voice too.
"A Foreign Service Messenger, Mr. Maurice Anerly, left for my capitalthis morning----"
&
nbsp; "Captain Searles has been instructed to intercept him. His dispatch willnot be delivered."
Inspector Sheffield, who had been vainly endeavouring to becometemporarily deaf, started. Whose voice was that? Could he trust hisears?
There followed the sound as of the clapping of hands upon someone'sshoulders.
"Baron Hecht, I hold a most sacred trust--the peace of nations. No oneshall rob me of it. Believe me, your great master already is drafting afriendly letter----"
The musical voice again, with that vibrant, forceful note.
"In short, Baron" (Sheffield tried not to hear; for he knew this voicetoo), "there is a power above the Eagle, a power above the Lion: thepower of wealth! Lacking her for ally, no nation can war with another!The king of that power has spoken--and declared for peace! I am glad ofit, and so, I know, are you!"
Following a short interval, a shaking of hands, as the unwillingeavesdropper divined. Then, by some other door, a number of peoplewithdrew, amid a hum of seemingly friendly conversation.
A gentleman pulled the curtain aside.
"Come in, Sheffield!" he said genially.
Chief Inspector Sheffield bowed very low and entered a large room,which, save for the gentleman who had admitted him, now was occupiedonly by the Right Hon. Walter Belford, Home Secretary.
"How do you do, Inspector?" asked Mr. Belford affably.
"Thank you, sir," replied the detective with diffidence; "I am quitewell, and trust you are."
"I think I know what has brought you here," continued the HomeSecretary. "You have been following----"
"Severac Bablon! Yes, sir!"
"As I supposed. Well, it will be expedient, Inspector, religiously tokeep that name out of the Press in future! Furthermore--er--any warrantthat may be in existence must be cancelled! This is a matter of policy,and I am sending the necessary instructions to the CriminalInvestigation Department. In short--drop the case!"
Chief Inspector Sheffield looked rather dazed.
"No doubt, this is a surprise to you," continued Mr. Belford; "but donot allow it to be a disappointment. Your tactful conduct of the case,and the delicate manner in which you have avoided compromisinganyone--in which you have handicapped yourself, that others might not beimplicated--has not been overlooked. Your future is assured, InspectorSheffield."
The gentleman who had admitted Sheffield had left the apartment almostimmediately afterwards. Now he returned, and fastened a pin in thedetective's tie.
"By way of apology for spoiling your case, Sheffield!" he said.
What Sheffield said or did at that moment he could never afterwardsremember. A faint recollection he had of muttering something about"Severac Bablon----!"
"Ssh!" Mr. Belford had replied. "There is no such person!"
It was at the moment of his leave-taking that his eyes were drawn to anash-tray upon the big table. A long tongue of bluish-grey smoke lickedthe air, coiling sinuously upward from amid cigar ends and ashes. Itseemingly possessed a peculiar and pungent perfume.
And it proceeded from the smouldering fragment of a yellow cigarette.
* * * * *
When Inspector Sheffield fully recovered his habitual composure andpresence of mind, he found himself proceeding along Piccadilly. War wasin the breeze; War was on all the placards. Would-be warriors looked outfrom every club window. "Rule, Britannia" rang out from every streetorgan.
Then came running a hoarse newsboy, aproned with a purple contents-bill,a bundle of _Gleaners_ under his arm. His stock was becoming depleted atrecord speed. He could scarce pass the sheets and grab the halfpencerapidly enough.
For where all else spoke of war, his bill read and his blatant voiceproclaimed:
"PEACE! _Official!_"
Again the power of the Seal had been exercised in the interests of themany, although popularly it was believed, and maintained, that Britain'shuge, efficient, and ever-growing air-fleet contributed not a little tothis peaceful conclusion.
The _Gleaner_ assured its many readers that such was indeed the case. Towhat extent the _Gleaner_ spoke truly, and to what extent its statementswere inspired, you are as well equipped to judge as I.
And unless some future day shall free my pen, I have little more to tellyou of Severac Bablon. Officially, as the Holder of the Seal, his work,at any rate for the time, in England was done. Some day, Sheard maycarry his history farther, and he would probably begin where I leaveoff.
This, then, will be at a certain pier-head, on a summer's day, and at atime when, far out near the sky-line, grey shapes creptsouthward--battleships--the flying squadron which thirty-six hoursearlier had proceeded to a neighbour's water-gate to demonstrate thatthe command of the seas had not changed hands since the days of Nelson.The squadron was returning to home waters. It was a concrete message ofpeace, expressed in terms of war.
Nearer to the shore, indeed at no great distance from the pier-head, laya white yacht, under steam. A launch left her side, swung around herstern, and headed for the pier.
In a lower gallery, shut off from the public promenades, where thousandsof curious holiday-makers jostled one another for a sight of the greatyacht, or for a glimpse of those about to join her, a tall man leanedupon the wooden rail and looked out to sea. A girl in while drill, whosepretty face was so pale that fashionable New York might have failed torecognise Zoe Oppner, the millionaire's daughter, stood beside him.
"Though I have been wrong," he said slowly, "in much that I have done,even you will agree that I have been right in this."
He waved his hand towards the fast disappearing squadron.
"Even I?" said Zoe sharply.
"Even you. For only you have shown me my errors."
"You admit, then, that your----!"
"Robberies?"
"Not that, of course! But your----"
"Outrages?"
"I did not mean that either. The means you have adopted have often beenviolent, though the end always was good. But no really useful reform canbe brought about in such a way, I am sure."
The man turned his face and fixed his luminous eyes upon hers.
"It may be so," he said; "but even now I see no other way."
Zoe pointed to the almost invisible battleships.
"Ah!" continued Severac Bablon, "that was a problem of a different kind.In every civilised land there is a power above the throne. Do you thinkthat, unaided, Prussia ever could have conquered gallant France? Thepeople who owe allegiance to the German Emperor are a great people, but,in such an undertaking as war, without the aid of that people who oweallegiance to _me_, they are helpless as a group of children! Had I beenin 1870 what I am to-day, the Prussian arms had never been carried intoParis!"
"You mean that a nation, to carry on a war, requires an enormous sum ofmoney?"
"Which can only be obtained from certain sources."
"From the Jews?"
"In part, at least. The finance of Europe is controlled by a group ofJewish houses."
"But they are not all----"
"Amenable to my orders? True. But the outrages with which you reproachme have served to show that when my orders are disobeyed I have power toenforce them! Where I am not respected I am feared. I refused my consentto the loan by aid of which Great Britain's enemies had designed toprosecute a war against her. None of those theatrical displays withwhich sometimes I have impressed the errant vulgar were necessary. Thegreatest name in European finance was refused to the transaction--andthe Great War died in the hour of its birth!"
His eyes gleamed with almost fanatic ardour.
"For this will be forgotten all my errors, and forgiven all my sins!"
"I am sure of that," said Zoe earnestly. "But--whatever you came todo----"
"I have not done--you would say? Only in part. Where I made my home inLondon, you have seen a curtained recess. It held the Emblem of mytemporal power."
He moved his hand, and the sunlight struck green beams from the bezel ofthe strange ring upon his f
inger. Zoe glanced at it with something thatwas almost like fear.
"This," he said, replying, as was his uncanny custom to an unspokenquestion, "is but the sign whereby I may be known for the holder of thatother Emblem. My house is empty now; the Emblem returns to the landwhere it was fashioned."
"You are abandoning your projects--your mission? Why?"
"Perhaps because the sword is too heavy for the wielder. Perhaps becauseI am only a man--and lonely."
The launch touched the pier, below them.
"You are the most loyal friend I have made in England--in Europe--in theworld," said Severac Bablon. "Good-bye."
Zoe was very pale.
"Do you mean--for--always?"
"When you have said 'Good-bye' to me I have nothing else to stay for."
Zoe glanced at him once and looked away. Her charming face suddenlyflushed rosily, and a breeze from the sea curtained the bright eyes withintractable curls.
"But if I _won't_ say 'Good-bye'?" she whispered.