“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 impatien
tly. 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
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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
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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.
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