SABATINI'S DAUGHTER
Sabatini, already dressed for the evening, his coat upon his arm,
paused only to light a cigarette and read once more the telegram
which he held between his fingers, before he left his house to step
into the automobile which was waiting outside. His servant entered
the room with his silk hat.
"You will remember carefully my instructions, Pietro?" he said.
"Assuredly, sir," the man answered.
"If there is a telegram, any communication from the Embassy, or
telephone message, you will bring it to me yourself, at once, at
number 17, Grosvenor Square. If any one should call to see me, you
know exactly where I am to be found."
"There is a young gentleman here now, sir," the man announced. "He
has just arrived."
"The young gentleman who was here before, to-day?" Sabatini asked.
"The same, Excellency."
Sabatini laid down his coat.
"You can show him in," he directed. "Wait for me outside."
Arnold, who had come straight from the unknown world in which he
had found Isaac, was shown in immediately. Pietro closed the door
and withdrew. Sabatini looked inquiringly at his visitor.
"You have seen Isaac?" he asked.
"I have seen him," Arnold assented.
"You bring me news?"
"It is true," Arnold replied. "I bring news."
Sabatini waited patiently. Arnold remained, for a moment, gloomily
silent. It was hard to know how to commence.
"You will forgive my reminding you," Sabatini said quietly, "that I
am on the point of starting out to keep an engagement. I would not
mention it but in one respect London hostesses are exacting. There
are many liberties which are permitted here, but one must not be
late for dinner."
Arnold's memory flashed back to the scene which he had just left--to
Isaac, the outcast, crouched beneath his barricade of furniture,
waiting in the darkness with his loaded pistol and murder in his
heart. Sabatini, calm and dignified in his rigidly correct evening
dress, his grace and good-looks, represented with curious
appositeness the other extreme of life.
"I will not keep you long," Arnold began, "but there is something
which you must hear from me, and hear at once."
"Assuredly," Sabatini murmured. "It is something connected with your
visit to this poor, misguided outcast. I am afraid there is nothing
we can do for him."
"There is nothing any one can do for him," Arnold declared. "I went
to see him because, when he fled from his rooms and they were seized
by the police, his niece was left penniless and homeless.
Fortunately, the change in my own circumstances permitted me to
offer her a shelter--for the moment, at any rate. I have told you
something of this before but I am obliged to repeat it. You will
understand presently. It is of some importance."
Sabatini bowed.
"The young lady is still under your care?" he asked.
"She is still with me," Arnold admitted. "I took two rooms not very
far away from here. I did it because it was the only thing to do,
but I can see now that as a permanent arrangement it will not
answer. Already, even, a shadow seems to have sprung up between us.
I am beginning to understand what it is. I have always looked upon
Ruth as being somewhat different from other women because of her
infirmity. It is dawning upon me now that, after all, the infirmity
counts for little. She is a woman, with a woman's sensibility and
all that goes with it. It troubles her to be living alone with me."
A shadow of perplexity passed across Sabatini's face. This young man
was very much in earnest and spoke as though he had good reasons for
these explanations, yet the reasons themselves were not obvious and
the minutes were passing.
"She seemed to me," he murmured, "to be a very charming and
distinguished young lady."
"I am glad to hear you say so," Arnold declared. "To-day I went to
Isaac that he might tell me whether there were not some relatives of
hers in the world to whom she could apply for help and shelter. I
pointed out that he had left Ruth alone and penniless; that although
the charge of her was nothing but a pleasure to me, it was not
fitting that I should undertake it. I insisted upon his telling me
the name of at least one of her relatives, so that I might let them
know of her existence and beg for a home for her."
"It was a reasonable request," Sabatini remarked. "I trust that the
fellow recognized the situation?"
"He had already written out Ruth's history," Arnold said, his voice
shaking a little. "He had written it out in pencil on a couple of
sheets of foolscap. He gave them to me to bring away with me. I read
them coming up. I am here now to repeat their purport to you."
Sabatini gave a little nod of interest. His glance at the clock was
apologetic. He had thrown his overcoat once more upon his arm, and,
with his white-gloved hand resting upon the back of a chair, stood
listening in an attitude of courteous ease.
"I shall be glad to hear the story," he said. "I must admit that
although I only met the young lady for those few minutes at Bourne
End, I found myself most interested in her. I feel sure that she is
charming in every way. Please go on."
"If Isaac's story is true," Arnold continued slowly, "you should
indeed be interested in her."
Sabatini's eyebrows were slightly raised.
"I scarcely understand," he murmured. "I--pray go on."
"According to his story," Arnold said, "Ruth Lalonde is your
daughter."
Sabatini stood perfectly motionless. The slight expression of tired
attention with which he had been listening, had faded from his face.
In the late sunshine which still filled the room, there was
something almost corpse-like in the pallor of his cheeks, his
unnatural silence. When he spoke, his words came slowly.
"Is this a jest?"
"Isaac's story is that you married her mother, who was his sister,
in Paris, nineteen and a half years ago. Her name was Cécile Ruth
Leneveu, and she was acting at one of the theatres. She was really
Isaac's half-sister. His father had brought him from Paris when he
was only a child, and married again almost at once. According to his
story, Ruth's mother lived with you for two years--until, in fact,
you went to Chili to take command of the troops there, at the time
of the revolution. When you returned, she was dead. You were told
that she had given birth to a daughter and that she, too, had died."
"That is true," Sabatini admitted slowly. "I came back because of
her illness, but I was too late."
"The child did not die," Arnold continued. "She was brought up by
Isaac in a small convent near Rouen, where she remained until two
years ago, when he was forced to come to England. He brought her
with him as, owing to her accident, she was unable to take the post
of teacher for which she had been intended, and the convent where
she was living was unexpectedly broken up. Since then she has lived
a sad life with him in London. His has been simply a hand-to-mouth
existence."
"But I do not understand why I was kept in ignorance," Sabatini
declared. "Why did he not appeal to me for help? Why was my
daughter's existence kept a secret from me?"
"Because Isaac is half a fanatic and half a madman," Arnold replied.
"You represent to him the class he loathes, the class he has hated
all his life, and against which he has waged ceaseless war. He hated
your marriage to his sister, and his feelings were the more
embittered because it suited you to keep it private. He has nursed a
bitter feeling against you all his life for this reason."
Sabatini turned stiffly away. He walked to the window, standing for
a moment or two with his back to Arnold, looking out into the quiet
street. Then he came back.
"I must go to this man at once," he said. "You can take me there?"
"I can take you," Arnold assented, doubtfully, "and I have even a
message from him asking you to visit him, but I warn you that he is
in a dangerous mood. I found him the solitary occupant of a
miserable room in the back street of a quarter of London which
reminded me more than anything else of some foreign city. He has
cleared the furniture from the room, reared a table up on end, and
is crouching behind it with a Mauser pistol in his hand and a box of
cartridges by his side. My own belief is that he is insane."
"It is of no account, that," Sabatini declared. "One moment."
He touched the bell for his servant, who entered almost immediately.
"You will take a cab to 17, Grosvenor Square, Pietro," he directed.
"Present my compliments to the lady of the house, and tell her that
an occurrence of the deepest importance deprives me of the honor of
dining to-night."
"Very good, your Excellency."
Sabatini turned to Arnold.
"Come," he said simply, "my automobile is waiting. Will you direct
the man?"
They started off citywards. Sabatini, for a time, sat like a man in
a dream, and Arnold, respecting his companion's mood, kept silent.
There seemed to be something unreal about their progress. To Arnold,
with this man by his side, the amazing story which he had gathered
from those ill-written pages, with their abrupt words and brutal
cynicism, still ringing in his brain, their errand seemed like some
phantasmal thing. The familiar streets bore a different aspect; the
faces of the people whom they passed struck him always with a
curious note of unreality. Ruth was Sabatini's daughter! His brain
refused to grasp so amazing a fact. Yet curiously enough, as he
leaned back among the cushions, the likeness was there. The turn of
the lips, the high forehead, the flawless delicacy of her oval face,
in the light of this new knowledge were all startlingly reminiscent
of the man who sat by his side now in a grim, unbroken silence. The
wonder of it all remained unabated, but his sense of apprehension
grew.
Presently Sabatini began to talk, rousing himself as though with an
effort, and asking questions concerning Ruth, about her accident,
her tastes. He heard of the days of her poverty with a little
shiver. Arnold touched lightly upon these, realizing how much his
companion was suffering. Their progress grew slower and slower as
they passed into the heart of this strange land, down the narrow yet
busy thoroughfare which seemed to be the main artery of the
neighborhood. Strange names were above the shop-windows, strange
articles were displayed behind them. Stalls were set out in the
streets. Men and women, driven by the sulphurous heat to seek air,
leaned half-dressed from the windows, or sat even upon the pavement
in front of their houses. More than once they were obliged to come
to a standstill owing to the throngs of loiterers. As they neared
the last corner, Arnold leaned out and his heart sank. In front he
could see the crowd kept back by a line of police.
"We are too late!" he exclaimed. "They have found him! They must be
making the arrest even now!"