The Marquis smiled.
“You analytical novelists would destroy for us the whole romance of life,” he declared. “I will not listen to you any longer. I fear ignorance less than disillusion!”
He passed on, and the little group at once dispersed. The novelist was left alone. He went off in a huff. Lord Chelsford plucked me by the arm.
“Let us sit down, Ducaine,” he said. “What rubbish these men of letters talk!”
I glanced towards the ballroom, but my companion shook his head.
“Angela is dancing with the Portuguese Ambassador,” he said, “and he will never give up his ten minutes afterwards. You must pay the penalty of having—married the most beautiful woman in London, Guy, and sit out with the old fogies. What rubbish that fellow did talk!”
“You are thinking—” I murmured.
“Of the Duke! Yes! There was a man who to all appearance was a typical English gentleman, proud, sensitive of his honour, in every action which came before the world a right-dealing and a right-doing man. To do what seemed right to him from one point of view he stripped himself of lands and fortune, and when that was not enough he stooped to unutterable baseness. He was willing to betray his country to justify his own sense of personal honour.”
“In justice to him,” I said, “one must remember that he never for a moment believed in the possibility of a French invasion.”
Lord Cheisford shook his head.
“It is too nice a point,” he declared. “We may not reckon it in his favour. I wonder how our friends on the other side felt when they knew that they had paid fifty thousand pounds for false information? We ought to make you a peer, Ducaine. The Trogoldy money would stand it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t!” I cried. “What have I done that you should want to banish me into the pastures?”
“You talk too much,” my companion murmured. “In the Lords it wouldn’t matter, but in the Commons you are a nuisance. I suppose you want to be taken into the Cabinet.”
“Quite true!” I admitted. “You want young men there, and I am ready any time.”
“A man with a wife like yours,” Lord Chelsford remarked, thoughtfully, “is bound to go anywhere he wants. Then he sits down and takes all the credit to himself.”
Angela passed on the arm of the Ambassador. She waved her hand gaily to us, but her companion drew her firmly away. We both looked after her admiringly.
“Guy,” Lord Chelsford said, “we have both of us done some good work in our time, but never anything better than the way we managed to hoodwink everybody—even herself, about her father. Amongst the middle classes he remains a canonized saint, the man who pauperized himself for their sakes. Ray was too full of Blenavon’s little aberrations to suspect any one else, and our friends from across the water who might—I mean the woman—have been inclined for a little blackmail, were obliging enough to make a final disappearance in the unlucky Henriette. The woman was saved, though, by-the-bye.”
“The woman is still alive,” I told him, “but I will answer for her silence. I allow her a small pension—all she would accept. She is living in the south of France somewhere.”
“And Blenavon,” Lord Chelsford said, with a smile, “has married an American girl who has made a different man of him. What character those women have! She hasn’t a penny, they tell me, until her father dies, and they work on their ranch from sunrise. She will be an ornament to our aristocracy when they do come back.”
“They are coming next spring,” I remarked, “if they can do it out of the profits of the ranch—not unless. Blenavon has carried out his father’s wishes to the letter, and cut off the entail of everything that was necessary.”
“What a silly ass that novelist was!” Lord Chelsford declared vigorously.
THE END
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter I. A Supper Party At The “Milan.”
Chapter II. A Drama Of The Pavement
Chapter III. The Warning Of Felix
Chapter IV. At The Russian Ambassador’s
Chapter V. The Dilemma Of Wolfenden
Chapter VI. A Compact Of Three
Chapter VII. Who Is Mr. Sabin?
Chapter VIII. A Meeting In Bond Street
Chapter IX. The Shadows That Go Before
Chapter X. The Secretary
Chapter XI. The Fruit That Is Of Gold
Chapter XII. Wolfenden’s Luck
Chapter XIII. A Great Work
Chapter XIV. The Tempting Of Mr. Blatherwick
Chapter XV. The Coming And Going Of Mr. Franklin Wilmot
Chapter XVI. Genius Or Madness?
Chapter XVII. The Scheming Of Giants
Chapter XVIII. “He Has Gone To The Emperor!”
Chapter XIX. Wolfenden’s Love-Making
Chapter XX. From A Dim World
Chapter XXI. Harcutt’s Inspiration
Chapter XXII. From The Beginning
Chapter XXIII. Mr. Sabin Explains
Chapter XXIV. The Way Of The Woman
Chapter XXV. A Handful Of Ashes
Chapter XXVI. Mr. Blatherwick As St. Anthony
Chapter XXVII. By Chance Or Design
Chapter XXVIII. A Midnight Visitor
Chapter XXIX. “It Was Mr. Sabin”
Chapter XXX. The Gathering Of The War-Storm
Chapter XXXI. “I Make No Promise”
Chapter XXXII. The Secret Of Mr. Sabin’s Niece
Chapter XXXIII. Mr. Sabin Triumphs
Chapter XXXIV. Blanche Merton’s Little Plot
Chapter XXXV. A Little Game Of Cards
Chapter XXXVI. The Modern Richelieu
Chapter XXXVII. For A Great Stake “germany’s Insult To England! England’s Reply.
Chapter XXXVIII. The Men Who Saved England
Chapter XXXIX. The Heart Of The Princess
Chapter XL. The Way To Pau
Chapter XLI. Mr. And Mrs. Watson Of New York
Chapter XLII. A Weak Conspirator
Chapter XLIII. The Coming Of The “Kaiser Wilhelm”
Chapter XLIV. The Germans Are Annoyed
Chapter XLV. Mr. Sabin In Danger
Chapter XLVI. Mr. Watson Is Astonished
Chapter XLVII. A Charmed Life
Chapter XLVIII. The Doomschen
Chapter XLIX. Mr. Sabin Is Sentimental
Chapter L. A Harbour Tragedy
Chapter LI. The Persistence Of Felix
Chapter LII. Mrs. James B. Peterson, Of Lenox.
CHAPTER I
A SUPPER PARTY AT THE “MILAN.”
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“To all such meetings as these!” cried Densham, lifting his champagne glass from under the soft halo of the rose-shaded electric lights. “Let us drink to them, Wolfenden—Mr. Felix!”
“To all such meetings!” echoed his vis-à-vis, also fingering the delicate stem of his glass. “An excellent toast!”
“To all such meetings as these!” murmured the third man, who made up the little party. “A capital toast indeed!”
They sat at a little round table in the brilliantly-lit supper-room of one of London’s most fashionable restaurants. Around them were the usual throng of well dressed men, of women with bare shoulders and flashing diamonds, of dark-visaged waiters, deft, silent, swift-footed. The pleasant hum of conversation, louder and more unrestrained as the hour grew towards midnight, was varied by the popping of corks and many little trills of feminine laughter. Of discordant sounds there were none. The waiters’ feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, the clatter of plates was a thing unheard of. From the balcony outside came the low, sweet music of a German orchestra played by master hands.
As usual the place was filled. Several late-comers, who had neglected to order their table beforehand, had already, after a disconsolate tour of the room, been led to one of the smaller apartments, or had driven off again to where the lights from the larger but l
ess smart Altoné flashed out upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was as yet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young men who were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It was laid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a few minutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the places by the director of the rooms himself. A man’s small visiting-card was leaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by some one of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to be met by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whom they had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the object of some speculation to the three young men.
“Our neighbours,” remarked Wolfenden, “are running it pretty fine. Can you see whose name is upon the card, Densham?”
The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward. Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away.
“No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son of Israel!”
“His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable,” Wolfenden remarked. “I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do not like to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper.”
“The lady,” Densham suggested, “is probably theatrical, and has to dress after the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. I wonder——”
“Sh-sh!”
The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked his speech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round. There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faint suggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last the table was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful white dress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch of creamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair for her. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walked with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him and made some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, and passing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of his chair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, until she should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsed before they were settled in their places he glanced around the room with a smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin, well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him with frank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of the party, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden.
The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had been temporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had been interested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followed them to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the man distinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum of conversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to one another, and their questions were almost simultaneous.
“Who are they?”
“Who is she?”
Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix, Wolfenden’s guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived in England, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did not seem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, with his back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upward glance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking at them. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards.
“I see Harcutt in the corner,” he said. “He will know who they are for certain. I shall go and ask him.”
He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy little party in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! not one of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man who prided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless as the rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it.
“I never saw either of them before in my life,” he said. “I cannot imagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners.”
“Very likely,” Wolfenden agreed quietly. “In fact, I never doubted it. An English girl of that age—she is very young by the bye—would never be so perfectly turned out.”
“What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden,” exclaimed the woman on whose chair his hand was resting. “Don’t you know that dressing is altogether a matter of one’s maid? You may rely upon it that that girl has found a treasure!”
“Well, I don’t know,” Wolfenden said, smiling. “Young English girls always seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girl is dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet with the simplicity of a child.”
The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders.
“I agree with you,” she said, “that she is probably not English. If she were she would not wear such diamonds at her age.”
“By the bye,” Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, “we shall be able to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved, so the name will be on the list at the door.”
His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed the room with Wolfenden.
“We may as well have our coffee together,” he said. “I ordered Turkish and I’ve been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo! where’s your other guest?”
Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly.
“Your friend Felix has gone,” he announced. “Suddenly remembered an engagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he’d look you up to-morrow.”
“Well, he’s an odd fellow,” Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to the vacant place. “His looks certainly belie his name.”
“He’s not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party,” Densham admitted, “but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden, and where does he hail from?”
“He’s a junior attaché at the Russian Embassy,” Wolfenden said, stirring his coffee. “Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a line of introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I looked him up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and asked you both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?”
The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily. At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty. The advent of these two people at the next table had produced an extraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the least affected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who had embraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with his profession. Partly on account of his social position, which was unquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction, he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. His pen was easy and fluent. He was an inimitable maker of short paragraphs. He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He could have told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter, was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden’s allowance from his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, a humiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eager questions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequently Wolfenden’s inquiries. The thought that very soon at any rate their name would be known to him was, in a sense, a consolation. The rest would be easy. Until he knew all about them he meant to conceal so far as possible his own interest.
CHAPTER II
A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT
Table of Contents
The pitch of conversation had risen higher, still mingled with the intermittent popping of corks and the striking of matches. Blue wreaths of cigarette smoke were curling upwards—a delicate feeling of “abandon” was making itself felt amongst the roomful of people. The music grew softer as the babel of talk grew in volume. The whole environment became tinged with a faint but genial voluptuousness. Densham was laughing over the foibles of some mutual acquaint
ance; Wolfenden leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette and sipping his Turkish coffee. His eyes scarcely left for a moment the girl who sat only a few yards away from him, trifling with a certain dainty indifference with the little dishes, which one after the other had been placed before her and removed. He had taken pains to withdraw himself from the discussion in which his friends were interested. He wanted to be quite free to watch her. To him she was certainly the most wonderful creature he had ever seen. In every one of her most trifling actions she seemed possessed of an original and curious grace, even the way she held her silver fork, toyed with her serviette, raised her glass to her lips and set it down again—all these little things she seemed to him to accomplish with a peculiar and wonderful daintiness. Of conversation between her companion and herself there was evidently very little, nor did she appear to expect it. He was enjoying his supper with the moderation and minute care for trifles which denote the epicure, and he only spoke to her between the courses. She, on the other hand, appeared to be eating scarcely anything. At last, however, the waiter set before her a dish in which she was evidently interested. Wolfenden recognised the pink frilled paper and smiled. She was human enough then to care for ices. She bent over it and shrugged her shoulders—turning to the waiter who was hovering near, she asked a question. He bowed and removed the plate. In a moment or two he reappeared with another. This time the paper and its contents were brown. She smiled as she helped herself—such a smile that Wolfenden wondered that the waiter did not lose his head, and hand her pepper and salt instead of gravely filling her glass. She took up her spoon and deliberately tasted the contents of her plate. Then she looked across the table, and spoke the first words in English which he had heard from her lips—
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