A week had passed since the two friends had met, and the _Blue Wing_ now
lay in the Potomac near the Seventh Street wharf. It was night and the
men had dined.
Valentin's dinners were a distinct achievement. They were of the kind
which made conclusive the assumption of an especial heaven for cooks.
After coffee and over a cigar, which made all things complete, Mortimer
Crabb chose his psychological moment.
"Burnett," he said, "you must see that treaty and copy it."
Burnett looked at him squarely. Crabb's glance never wavered.
"So you _did_ mean it?" said Burnett.
"Every word. You must have it. I'm going to help."
"It's hopeless."
"Perhaps. But the game is worth the candle."
"A bribe to a servant?"
"Leave that to me. Come, come, Ross, it's the chance of your life.
Arnim, Von Schlichter and all the rest of them dine at the British
embassy to-night. There's to be a ball afterward. They won't be back
until late. We must get into Arnim's rooms at the German embassy. Those
rooms are in the rear of the house. There's a rain spout and a back
building. You can climb?"
"To-night?" Burnett gasped. "You found out these things to-day?"
"Since I left you. I saw Denton Thorpe at the British embassy."
"And you were so sure I'd agree! Don't you think, old man----"
"Hang it all, Burnett! I'm not easily deceived. You're down on your
luck; that's plain. But you're not beaten. Any man who can buck the
market down to his last thousand the way you did doesn't lack sand.
The end isn't an ignoble one. You'll be doing the Administration a
service--and yourself. Why, how can you pause?"
Burnett looked around at the familiar fittings of the saloon, at the
Braun prints let into the woodwork, at the flying teal set in the
azure above the wainscoting, at his immaculate host and at his own
conventional black. Was this to be indeed a setting for Machiavellian
conspiracy?
Crabb got up from the table and opened the doors of a large locker under
the companion. Burnett watched him curiously.
Garment after garment he pulled out upon the deck under the glare of the
cabin lamp; shoes, hats and caps, overcoats and clothing of all sizes
and shapes from the braided gray of the coster to the velvet and sash of
the Nicois.
He selected a soft hat and a cap and two long, tattered coats of ancient
cut and style and threw them over the back of a chair. Then he went to
his stateroom and brought out a large square box of tin and placed it
on the table.
He first wrapped a handkerchief around his neck, then seated himself
deliberately before the box, opened the lid and took out a tray filled
with make-up sticks. These he put aside while he drew forth from the
deeper recesses mustachios, whiskers and beards of all shapes and
complexions. He worked rapidly and silently, watching his changing image
in the little mirror set in the box lid.
Burnett, fascinated, followed his skillful fingers as they moved back
and forth, lining here, shading there, not as the actor does for an
effect by the calcium, but carefully, delicately, with the skill of the
art anatomist who knows the bone structure of the face and the pull of
the aging muscles.
In twenty minutes Mortimer Crabb had aged as many years, and now bore
the phiz of a shaggy rum-sot. The long coat, soft hat and rough bandanna
completed the character. The fever of the adventure had mounted in
Burnett's veins. He sprang to his feet with a reckless gesture of final
resolution.
"Give me my part!" he exclaimed. "I'll play it!"
The aged intemperate smiled approval. "Good lad!" he said. "I thought
you'd be game. If you hadn't been I was going alone. It's lucky you're
clean shaved. Come and be transfigured."
And as he rapidly worked on Burnett's face he completed the details of
his plan. Like a good general, Crabb disposed his plans for failure as
well as for success.
They would wear their disguises over their evening clothes. Then, if the
worst came, vaseline and a wipe of the bandannas would quickly remove
all guilty signs from their faces, they could discard their tatters, and
resume the garb of convention.
Ross Burnett at last rose swarthy and darkly mustached, lacking only the
rings in his ears to be old Gabri himself. He was fully awakened to the
possibilities of the adventure. Whatever misgivings he had had were
speedily dissipated by the blithe optimism of his companion.
Crabb reached over for the brandy decanter.
"One drink," he said, "and we must be off."
The night was thick. A mist which had been gathering since sunset now
turned to a soft drizzle of rain. Crabb, hands in pockets and shoulders
bent, walked with a rapid and shambling gait up the street.
"We can't risk the cars or a cab in this," muttered Crabb. "We might do
it, but it's not worth the risk. Can you walk? It's not over three
miles."
It was after one o'clock before they reached Highland Terrace. Without
stopping they examined the German embassy at long range from the distant
side of Massachusetts Avenue. A gas lamp sputtered dimly under the
_porte-cochere_. Another light gleamed far up in the slanting roof.
Crabb led the way around and into the alley in the rear. It was long,
badly lighted and ran the entire length of the block.
"I got the details in the city plot-book from a real-estate man this
afternoon. He thinks I'm going to buy next door. I wanted to be
particular about the alleys and back entrances." Crabb chuckled.
Burnett looked along the backs of the row of N Street houses. They were
all as stolid as sphinxes. Several lights at wide intervals burned
dimly. The night was chill for the season, and all the windows were
down. The occasion was propitious. The rear of the embassy was dark,
except for a dim glow in a window on the second floor.
"That should be Arnim's room," said Crabb.
He tried the back gate. It was unlocked. Noiselessly they entered,
closing it after them. There was a rain spout, which Crabb eyed
hopefully; but they found better luck in the shape of a thirty-foot
ladder along the fence.
"A positive invitation," whispered Crabb, joyfully. "Here, Ross; in the
shadow. Once on the back building the deed is done. Quiet, now. You hold
it and I'll go up."
Burnett did not falter. But his hands were cold, and he was trembling
from top to toe with excitement. He could not but admire Crabb's
composure as he went firmly up the rungs.
He saw him reach the roof and draw himself over the coping, and in a
moment Burnett, less noiselessly but safely, had joined his fellow
criminal by the window. There they waited a moment, listening. A cab
clattered down Fifteenth Street, and the gongs on the car line clanged
in reply, but that was all.
Crabb stealthily arose and peered into the lighted window. It was a
study. The light came from a lamp with a green shade. Under its glow
upon the desk were maps and documents in profusion. And in the corner he
could make out the lines of an iron-bound chest or box. They had made no
mistake. Unless in the possession of Von Schlichter it was here that
the Chinese treaty would be found.
"All right," whispered Crabb. "An old-fashioned padlock, too."
Crabb tried the window. It was locked. He took something from one of the
pockets of his coat and reached up to the middle of the sash. There was
a sound like the quick shearing of linen which sent the blood back to
Burnett's heart. In the still night it seemed to come back manifold
from the wings of the buildings opposite. They paused again. A slight
crackling of broken glass, and Crabb's long fingers reached through the
hole and turned the catch. In a moment they were in the room.
The intangible and Quixotic had become a latter-day reality. Burnett's
spirits rose. He did not lack courage, and here was a situation which
spurred him to the utmost.
Instinctively he closed the inside shutters behind him. From the alley
the pair would not have presented an appearance which accorded with the
quiet splendor of the room. He found himself peering around, his ears
straining for the slightest sound.
A glance revealed the dispatch-box, heavy, squat and phlegmatic, like
its owner. Crabb had tiptoed over to the door of the adjoining room.
Burnett saw the eyes dilate and the warning finger to his lips.
From the inner apartment, slowly and regularly, came the sound of heavy
breathing. There, in a broad armchair by the foot of the bed, sprawled
the baron's valet, in stertorous sleep. His mouth was wide open, his
limbs relaxed. He had heard nothing.
"Quick," whispered Crabb; "your bandanna around his legs."
Burnett surprised himself by the rapidity and intelligence of his
collaboration. A handkerchief was slipped into the man's mouth, and
before his eyes were fairly opened he was gagged and bound hand and foot
by the cord from the baron's own dressing gown.
From a pocket Crabb had produced a revolver, which he flourished
significantly under the nose of the terrified man, who recoiled before
the dark look which accompanied it.
Crabb seemed to have planned exactly what to do. He took a bath towel
and tied it over the man's ears and under his chin. From the bed he took
the baron's sheets and blankets, enswathing the unfortunate servant
until nothing but the tip of his nose was visible. A rope of suspenders
and cravats completed the job.
The Baron Arnim's valet, to all the purposes of usefulness in life, was
a bundled mummy.
"Phew!" said Crabb, when it was done. "Poor devil! But it can't be
helped. He mustn't see or know. And now for it."
Crabb produced a bunch of skeleton keys and an electric bull's-eye. He
tried the keys rapidly. In a moment the dispatch-box was opened and its
contents exposed to view.
"Carefully now," whispered Crabb. "What should it look like?"
"A foolscap-shaped thing in silk covers with dangling cords," said Ross.
"There, under your hand."
In a moment they had it out and between them on the desk. There it was,
in all truth, written in two columns, Chinese on the one side, French on
the other.
"Are you sure?" said Crabb.
"Sure! Sure as I'm a thief in the night!"
"Then sit and write, man. Write as you never wrote before. I'll listen
and watch Rameses the Second."
In the twenty minutes during which Burnett fearfully wrote, Crabb stood
listening at the doors and windows for sounds of servants or approaching
carriages. The man swaddled in the sheets made a few futile struggles
and then subsided. Burnett's eyes gleamed. Other eyes than his would
gleam at what he saw and wrote. When he finished he closed the document,
removed all traces of his work, replaced it in the iron box and shut the
lid. He dropped the precious sheets into an inner pocket and was moving
toward the window when Crabb seized him by the arm. There was a step in
the hallway without, and the door opened. There, stout and grizzled, his
walrus mustache bristling with surprise, in all the distinction of gold
lace and orders, stood Baron Arnim.