Finding that his visitor was determined to travel back to London at
once, Dudley gave orders for the dog-cart to be brought round to the
servants' entrance, for Cator had expressed the strongest desire that
his visit should remain unknown.
"Among your guests are several persons who have wintered in Rome, with
whom I am on friendly terms. Just now I'm too much occupied to meet
them. You'll quite understand," he said.
"Perfectly, my dear sir," replied the Under-secretary, mixing another
glass of whiskey for each of them. "In this matter I shall be perfectly
silent. From me not a soul will know that you have been in England."
Dudley's spirits had risen, for he imagined that he had successfully
evaded the man's inquiries and by that means had staved off the
threatened exposure and ruin.
"From what I've explained you will readily recognise how extremely
critical is the present situation, and the urgent necessity that exists
for a firm and defiant policy on our part. But until I discover the
truth the chief is utterly unable to move, lest he should precipitate
events and cause the bursting of the war-cloud."
"Exactly. I see it all quite plainly," Dudley answered. "I trust you
will experience little difficulty in discovering the man for whom you
are searching. I need not say how extremely anxious I shall be to see
the strange matter elucidated, so that the mystery may once and for all
be cleared up."
"I am working unceasingly towards that end, Mr. Chisholm," answered
Cator with a meaning look in his quick grey eyes, as he drained his
glass and rose. "And now I have only to apologise for intruding upon
you at such an unearthly hour."
"Apology is quite unnecessary," Dudley assured him. "It appears that
the matter personally concerns me in some extraordinary manner."
"Yes," replied the chief of the secret service. "So it seems. But we
shall know more later, I hope. My staff are on the alert everywhere.
As every confidential agent that England possesses on the Continent is
at work endeavouring to unravel the mystery of Mayne Lennox, I am very
hopeful of success. And success will allow England to make a
counter-stroke that will paralyse our enemies and `frustrate their
knavish tricks,' to quote a suppressed line from the National Anthem."
"I wish you every luck," said the Under-Secretary, shaking the other's
thin and chilly hand. "As I can't persuade you to remain the night, I
hope you'll have a comfortable journey up to town."
"Not very comfortable, I anticipate," the captain laughed, surveying
himself. "I'm in an awful state--aren't I? It was so late when I got
to Shrewsbury that I couldn't get a conveyance anywhere, so in
desperation I tramped over here."
"Well, Barton shall drive you back; you'll have plenty of time for your
train. When do you return to the Continent?"
"Perhaps at once--by the eleven from Charing Cross. It all depends upon
a telegram which I shall receive on arrival in town. My future
movements are extremely uncertain. They always are. From one hour to
another I never know in which direction I shall be hurrying."
Chisholm had heard of this man's rapidity of movement. Indeed, it was
whispered in his own circle in the Foreign Office that Archie Cator
would often retire to his bachelor rooms in Rome, and cause his man,
Jewell, to give out that his master was indisposed, and confined to his
bed; though, as a matter of fact, the chief of the Confidential
Intelligence Department would be flying across to Berlin, Vienna, or
Petersburg on a swift and secret mission. He lived two lives so
completely that his ingenuity surpassed comprehension. In Rome, only
his servant and the Ambassador knew the truth. Even at that moment the
diplomatic circle in the Eternal City believed their popular member,
Captain Archie Cator of the British Embassy, to be suffering from one of
his acute and periodical attacks of the rheumatic gout which so often
prostrated him.
Dudley himself conducted his distinguished visitor down several stone
corridors into the servants' quarters. In the courtyard outside stood
Barton with the dog-cart, the light of the lamps showing that the snow
was still thawing into thick slush.
"Good-bye," cried the captain airily, when he had swung himself into the
trap and turned up the collar of his shabby overcoat.
"Good-bye, and good luck!" exclaimed the owner of Wroxeter, with a
warmth that was far from being heart-felt. Then the trap turned, and
disappeared swiftly through the old arched gateway into the black
winter's night.
Dudley, full of conflicting thoughts, paced slowly back through the
echoing corridors until he reached the ancient banqueting hall, where
the dancing had not long since been in progress. But all was silence,
and on opening the door he found the place in darkness. The gaiety had
ended, and his guests had retired. He crossed the great, gloomy hall,
distinguished by its ghostly-looking stands of armour, on which the
light from the corridor shone in gleaming patches, and, passing down
another corridor of the rambling old place, entered the smoking-room,
where half a dozen men were taking their whiskey and gossiping as was
their habit before going to bed.
"Hulloa, Dudley!" cried one man as he entered. "We've been looking for
you for an hour past. We wanted you to take a hand at whist."
"I had some little matters to attend to, so I slipped away," his host
explained. "I know you will forgive me."
"Of course," the man laughed, pulling forward a chair, into which
Chisholm sank wearily. When he had allowed a servant to hand him some
refreshment he joined? in the discussion which his entrance had
interrupted. As it was incumbent upon him to spend an hour with his
guests, he did so, but of the conversation he scarcely had any idea, for
his mind was full of grave thoughts, and he spoke mechanically, heartily
wishing that the men would retire, and leave him at liberty to return to
his study.
At last they all bade him good-night. As soon as they were gone he
walked slowly to that old room in which he knew he would remain
undisturbed. He threw himself down in the cosy corner beside the
blazing logs, where he sat staring fixedly at the dancing flames.
For a long time he remained immovable, his face hard and drawn, his eyes
wide open and fixed, until of a sudden he passed his hand slowly across
his brow, sighed heavily, and at last allowed bitter words to escape
from his white lips.
"My God!" he exclaimed in wild despair; "it's all over. That man Cator
has discovered the clue which must sooner or later reveal the hideous
truth. If it were any other person except him there might be just a
chance of misleading the chase. But no secret is safe from him and his
army of confidential agents. Ruin--nothing but ruin is before me! What
can I do?"
He rose and paced the room quickly with unequal steps. His face was
blanched, his eyes were fixed, his clenched hands trembled.
"Ah!" he cried bitterly to himself, "it would have been best to have
resigned and gone abroad months ago, while there was yet time. Under
another name I might have contrived to conceal my identity in one or
other of the colonies, where they do not inquire too closely into a
man's antecedents. But, alas! it is now too late. My movements are
evidently watched, and I am under suspicion, owing to the discovery of
my connection with that scoundrel Lennox. To resign my appointment is
impossible. I can only remain and face the ruin, shame, and ignominy
that are inevitable. I have sinned before God, and before man!" he
cried wildly, his face upturned, his clenched hands held trembling above
his head in blank despair. "For me there is no forgiveness--none!--
none! My only means of escape is suicide," he gasped with bated breath.
"A few drops of liquid in a wine-glass full of innocent water, and all
will be over--all the anguish, all the fever. No, it is not difficult--
not at all," and he laughed a hard, dry, sarcastic laugh. "And a final
drastic step of that sort is far preferable to shame and ruin."
He was silent for some time. His lips were still moving as he stood
there in the centre of the room, but no sound came from them. In the
awful agony he suffered he spoke to himself and heard words that were
unuttered. The possibility which he had suspected and dreaded during so
many dark weeks was now becoming horribly realised. His secret sin
would before long be revealed in all its true hideousness, and he,
England's rising statesman, the man of whom so much was prophesied, the
man who was trusted by the Prime Minister, who held such a brilliant and
responsible position, and who was envied by all the lesser fry in the
House, would be rudely cast forth as unfit and unworthy, his name,
honoured for generations, rendered odious.
Truly his position was graver and more precarious than that of
ninety-nine out of a hundred men. Condemnation was at hand. Cator, now
that he knew the name of Mayne Lennox, would not be long in laying bare
the whole of the facts.
And then?
He thought it all over, sighing heavily and clenching his hands in wild
despair. To no single person could he look for assistance, for he dared
not confide in any one. He could only suffer alone, and pay the penalty
for his sin.
How little the world knows of the inner life of its greatest men! The
popular favourite, the chosen of fortune in the various walks of life,
is too often an undeserving man, the skeleton in whose cupboard could
not bear the light of day. Fortune never chooses the best men for the
best places. Dishonesty grows fat, while virtue dies of starvation.
The public are prone to envy the men who are popular, who are "boomed"
by the newspapers, and whose doings are chronicled daily with the same
assiduity as the movements of the Sovereign himself, yet in many cases
these very men, as did Dudley Chisholm, shrink from the fierce light
always beating upon them. They loathe the plaudits of the multitude,
because of the inner voice of conscience that tells them they are
charlatans and shams; and they are always promising themselves that one
day, when they see a fitting opportunity, they will retire into private
life.
In every public assembly, from the smallest parish council up to
Westminster itself, there are prominent members who live in daily fear
of exposure. Although looked upon by the world as self-denying, upright
citizens, they are, nevertheless, leading a life of awful tension and
constant anxiety, knowing that their enemies may at any moment reveal
the truth.
Thus it was with Dudley Chisholm. That he was a man well fitted for the
responsible post he occupied in the Government could not be denied, and
that he had carefully and assiduously carried out the duties of his
office was patent to all. Yet the past--that dark, grim past which had
caused him to travel in the unfrequented tracks of the Far East--had
never ceased to haunt him, until now he could plainly see that the end
was very near. Exposure could not be long delayed.
The turret-clock chimed the hour slowly, and its bells aroused him.
"No," he cried hoarsely to himself, "no, it would not be just! Before
taking the final step I must place things in order--I must go out of
office with all the honour and dignity of the Chisholms," he added with
a short and bitter laugh. "Out of office!" he repeated hoarsely to
himself, "out of office--and out of the world!"