CLOSE TO TRAGEDY
The two men stood up in the automobile. Sabatini's face had
darkened. He leaned over and said something to the chauffeur. They
drove on through the press of people, who gave way sullenly. A
police inspector came to the side of the car.
"This way is blocked for the present, sir," he said to Sabatini. "If
you want to get past, you had better take one of the turnings to the
left."
"My destination is just here," Sabatini replied. "Tell me, what is
the cause of this disturbance?"
"Some of our men have gone to make an arrest in the street there,
sir," the inspector replied, "and we are having some trouble."
"Is it the man Isaac Lalonde whom you are after?" Sabatini asked.
"That is so, sir," the inspector admitted. "A desperate scoundrel he
is, too. He's shot at and wounded all three of the policemen who
entered the house, and he lies crouching before the window,
threatening to shoot any one who passes up the street."
"Who is in charge here?" Sabatini inquired.
"Chief Inspector Raynham," the man replied, pointing to an officer
in plain uniform who was standing a few yards away.
"Take me to him," Sabatini directed. "I may be of use in this
matter."
The crowd opened to let them pass through. They were on the corner
of the pavement now, and the street to their right was empty. There
was a disposition on the part of the people to hug the wall and peer
only round the corner, for they were within easy range of the grimy
window opposite.
"Mr. Inspector," Sabatini said, "I am Count Sabatini, a nobleman of
the country from which that man comes. I think, perhaps, that if you
will allow me to make the effort he will listen to me. I may be able
to save the loss of useful lives."
The chief inspector saluted.
"I shouldn't recommend you to go near him, sir," he declared. "They
say he's an out-and-out anarchist, the leader of one of the most
dangerous gangs in London. We've got the back of the house covered
and he can't escape, but he's shot three of our men who tried to get
at him. The chief of police is on his way down, and we are waiting
for instructions from him."
Sabatini's lips parted in the faintest of smiles. One could well
have imagined that he would have devised some prompter means to have
secured this man if he had been in command.
"You will not forbid my making the attempt, I trust?" he said,
courteously. "I do so at my own risk, of course."
The inspector hesitated. Sabatini, with a sudden swing of his
powerful arm, made his way into the front rank. Arnold clutched at
him.
"Don't go," he begged. "It isn't worth while. You hear, he has shot
three policemen already. You can't save him--you can't help him."
Sabatini turned round with an air of gentle superiority.
"My young friend," he said, "do you not understand that Isaac will
not be taken alive? There is a question I must ask him before he
dies."
The inspector stepped forward--afterwards he said that it was for
the purpose of stopping Sabatini. He was too late, however. The
crowd thronging the end of the street, and the hundreds of people
who peered from the windows, had a moment of wonderful excitement.
One could almost hear the thrill which stirred from their throats.
Across the empty street, straight towards the window behind which
the doomed man lay, Sabatini walked, strangest of figures amidst
those sordid surroundings, in his evening clothes, thin black
overcoat, and glossy silk hat. Step by step he approached the door.
He was about three yards from the curbstone when the window behind
which Isaac was crouching was suddenly smashed, and Isaac leaned
out. The crowd, listening intently, could hear the crash of falling
glass upon the pavement. They had their view of Isaac, too--a wan,
ghostlike figure, with haggard cheeks and staring eyes, eyes which
blazed out from between the strands of black hair.
"Stand where you are," he shouted, and the people who watched saw
the glitter of the setting sun upon the pistol in his hand. Sabatini
looked up.
"Isaac Lalonde," he called out, "you know who I am?"
"I know who you are," they heard him growl,--"Count Sabatini,
Marquis de Lossa, Chevalier de St. Jerome, Knight of the Holy Roman
Empire, aristocrat, blood-sucker of the people."
Sabatini shrugged his shoulders slightly.
"As to that," he answered firmly, "one may have opinions. My hand at
least is free from bloodshed. You are there with nothing but death
before you. I am here to ask a question."
"Ask it, then," the man at the window muttered. "Can't you see that
the time is short?"
"Is it true, this message which you sent me by that young man? Is it
my daughter, the child of Cécile, whom you have kept from me all
these years?"
Isaac leaned further forward out of the window. Every one in the
crowd could see him now. There were a few who began to shout. Every
one save Sabatini himself seemed conscious of his danger. Sabatini,
heedless or unconscious of it, stood with one foot upon the
curbstone, his face upturned to the man with whom he was talking.
"Ay, it is true!" Isaac shouted. "She is your daughter, child of the
wife whom you hid away, ashamed of her because she came from the
people and you were an aristocrat. She is your child, but you will
never see her!"
Then those who watched had their fill of tragedy. They saw the puff
of smoke, the sharp, discordant report, the murderous face of the
man who leaned downward. They saw Sabatini throw up his hands to
heaven and fall, a crumpled heap, into the gutter. Isaac, with the
pistol to his own forehead, overbalanced himself in the act of
pulling the trigger, and came crashing down, a corpse, on to the
pavement. The crowd broke loose, but Arnold was the first to raise
Sabatini. A shadow of the old smile parted his whitening lips. He
opened his eyes.
"It's a rotten death, boy," he whispered hoarsely; "a cur's bullet,
that. Look after her for me. I'd rather--I'd rather hear the drums
beating."
Arnold gripped him by the shoulders.
"Hold on to yourself, man!" he gasped. "There's a doctor
coming--he's here already. Hold on to yourself, for all our sakes!
We want you--Ruth will want you!"
Sabatini smiled very faintly. He was barely conscious.
"I'd rather have heard the drums," he muttered again.