one of his hands, to have a magnificent chance ofa sensational _coup_ such as this may prove to be if we are right andhave a quarter of an ounce of luck. Just get this clear, will you? Iaccept--I accept--I accept." And he enforced his words with a grip onmy arm that almost crushed the flesh into the bones.
A pause followed; and then, stopping dead, he fixed me with his eyes. Icould see that, shrewd, clever man of the world as he was, he was takingmy measure before he came to any deliberate resolution, and I met hisgaze with a glance as steadfast and as fearless as his own. After all,what had I to be ashamed of in six feet of lithe, clean figure, anathletic step, and features that my worst friends would say, although mymouth was hidden by a heavy black moustache like a cavalryman's, werehonest-looking and reliable?
"All right," he said in that sharp, decisive way of his; "I won't beatabout the bush any longer. You shall go with me, and if, between us, wedon't make some of these fiends sit up, and do a fine stroke of businessfor the old flag, I'll sit down and let that man I hate so cordially--Lord Cyril Cuthbertson--have a shot at it. But I won't--I won't--Iwon't." And once again he stretched out that vice-like hand of his toenforce his words on my over-slow imagination. But this time I was tooquick for him--I slipped on one side--and he broke into a hearty laugh.
"You'll do," he said admiringly, giving me a hearty slap on the back."Just meet me at the main entrance to the House in thirty minutes, willyou? Then we'll go straight on."
But as he hastened back I could not help two questions recurring to mewith startling distinctness: What "fiends" were those we had got toface?
And why should an insignificant-looking fellow like Jose Casteno so wellunderstand the bitter personal rivalries that spring up between strongmen on the same party side in the British Houses of Parliament as to beable to play what looked like a game of childish see-saw between twosuch redoubtable antagonists as Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, His Majesty'sSecretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and John Cooper-Nassington,uncrowned Emperor of Greater South America?
Both problems, however, were destined to be answered much more rapidlyand sensationally than ever I expected when I left the House that night.I drove my Panhard at break-neck rate back to its garage in StMartin's Lane, Charing Cross, snatched a hurried meal, and tore back ina hansom to St Stephen's.
One thing was soon evident--Cooper-Nassington was a man of his word. Asa matter of fact, I hadn't been waiting three minutes by those large andimposing gates that mark the main entrance to the Houses of Parliamentbefore his _coupe_ and handsome pair of bays clattered across thecourtyard, and pulled up with a jerk close to the kerb, and he thrusthis head out of the carriage and bade me enter.
In response, I took a vacant seat beside him, and without a word beingexchanged between footman and master, the servant mounted the box again,and the carriage was driven rapidly away.
Now did I confess here that I was anxious as to our destination, worriedas to what would happen, timid as to the safety of myself and mycompanion even after my grim and provoking experiences in the auctionmart, I should not put down what was the fact. In truth, I never feltless concerned about the issue of any adventure in the whole course ofmy career. Indeed, one had only to be in the company ofCooper-Nassington to catch some of the wonderful vitality, assurance,and resource of this most extraordinary individual. The very presenceof the man braced up the nerves, and insensibly one acquired some ofthat strong, masterful habit of mind and that breadth of outlook whichseemed to make him feel that, whatever mischances befell some of God'screatures, he, at least, was one destined to pass on--ever successful,always victorious.
As it happened, the journey we went was in itself short. Barely had wepassed half-way along Millbank Street than we made a sharp turn to theleft, and before I had time to utter an expression of recognition, thecarriage drew up with a jerk outside the old, dingy curiosity shop inTufton Street in which I had earlier in the day been imprisoned,--theretreat of that uncanny man, Peter Zouche, the Hunchback of Westminster.
Choking down any feeling of surprise I had on the subject, I meeklydescended from the brougham at the heels of my companion and without aword of protest heard him tell his coachman: "Home." It seemed to methen that we were both walking into the lion's den together, and that,if anything untoward happened, much the same fate would befall us both.
The carriage rolled away, and as its red lights disappeared round thebend of the street, which seemed strangely silent and deserted, I wasrather startled to hear my companion muffle something uncommonly like asigh of regret. To think, of course, that he was a bit nervous aboutthe upshot of our mission was nothing short of treason. None the less,as he advanced to the side door, and gave three peculiar taps on thewoodwork, I found my hand travelling instinctively to that small pocketof mine in which rested a revolver.
Almost instantly his summons was answered, and there appeared, framed inthe entrance, the grotesque figure of the hunchback, a man about fourfeet high, with a tiny head and face that instinctively recalled theprofile of an eagle. He was carrying a candle in a heavy brasscandlestick, and as he raised this above his head the light streamedfull upon our features.
For a second he paused, uncertain what to do. Then a derisive smilecurled around his toothless gums, and, with a sneer that I knew only toowell from old and bitter experiences meant mischief, he said:
"Oh, it's you, Nassington, also Glynn--is it? Well, come in. It's ascheap inside as out, and not so deuced unpleasant." And he backed upagainst the wall as we picked our way through the passage into a tinyparlour at the back of the shop.
The hunchback closed, locked, and bolted the door and followed us intothe room, placing the candle, with great deliberation, on themantelpiece. Then, rubbing his hands together and still sneering, heturned and faced us.
"And now, gentlemen," he said, never attempting to ask us to be seated,"perhaps you will be as good as to tell me to what I owe the honour ofthis visit? Myself, I should have thought that my young friend here,Hugh Glynn, had had enough of Peter Zouche and his shop and of his wayof paying out silly fellows who try to upset his plans."
Cooper-Nassington took a step forward and interposed his big brawnyframe between myself and the hunchback.
"Look here, Zouche," he said in that strong, masterful way of his,"leave those tricks of nastiness for children, who may, perhaps, flyinto a temper over them, and lose sight of the object of their visits,but we sha'n't." And he flung his hat deliberately on the table, and,dragging forward the most comfortable chair in the room, he coollyseated himself therein, pulled out a cigar case, extracted a weedtherefrom, and began to smoke.
"As for you, Glynn," he cried to me in a pause between the puffs, "youmake yourself at home too. Have a cigar," handing me the case and a boxof vestas, "but don't let that old scoundrel, Zouche, have one. It alldepends on his behaviour whether we ever leave him again now we've takenup our quarters in this musty old den of his." And he reached for adecanter of whiskey and a glass which were standing near, but thehunchback, who was now pallid with rage, made a grab for him and draggedthem out of his grasp.
"You brute!" he hissed. "The same old brute too. Tell me yourbusiness, and get you gone."
"Ah, now you're talking sense," said my companion, whose objectevidently had been to get the hunchback into a rage, "and I'll repayyour compliment by emulating your example and talking to the point too.As you guess, I have come about those three old manuscripts which youpurchased at the sale of the effects of a certain Father AlphonseCalasanctius. You have had time to decipher them since, and you knowthey are of precious importance to the gentleman who is employing MrGlynn here, to that young idiot, Lord Fotheringay, and, alsoincidentally, to myself. Now, what did they contain?"
And he fixed Peter Zouche with those terrible eyes of his.
To me, a plain onlooker, it was, of course, obvious that there must besome strong, secret bond between the hunchback and the millionaire.Nobody else, I was certain, would have dared to defy Peter Zou
che likethis, for, whatever might be his faults, the old curio dealer lackedneither position in the world, the respect of his fellows, nor wealth,that was sometimes spoken of as almost fabulous. True, he had all thatpetty spite, that malevolence, that ache for sinister mischief thatsomehow one almost always finds with people who have been deformed frombirth, but that night none of these obvious defects were uppermost. Hisattitude, on the contrary, suggested a man who had been brought to baymuch against his will--that of one who was faced by two dreadalternatives--either to fight to the bitter end an associate of old whohad some most uncanny and far-reaching hold over him, or to meekly yieldup some secret which he valued almost as highly as his life.
Who would triumph?
One--two--three--four--five minutes
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