When Topham left Miss Byrd he went back to the American embassy. The
hour was late and the windows were all dark and the rooms seemed
deserted, and despite Rutile’s invitation for a moment Topham hesitated
to climb the stairs.
Finally he stepped to the entrance, intending to ask the
watchman-porter there whether the secretary had gone. To his
surprise--though not so greatly so as it would have been if he had
known German customs better--the door was ajar and the watchman
missing; so with a shrug of his shoulders he entered and climbed the
stairs.
A tap at the embassy offices brought immediate answer, and he opened
the door just as Rutile came to meet him.
“Come in, old man,” called the latter. “I’ve been sitting in the
moonlight thinking something out. I often do when I’ve got something
important on hand. Come and sit down and I’ll light up and we’ll have a
drink.”
Topham took the proffered chair, but declined the drink. “Not tonight,
thank you!” he decided. “And don’t light up for me. I like moonlight.
Queer about the moon, though. It affects most people the other way,
doesn’t it.”
“Maybe! But not me! I’m rather excitable, you know. Liable to get
worked up over things and to exaggerate their importance. When I
suspect I’m doing that, I sit down in the moonlight--if there’s a moon
handy--and in the stillness--if stillness is to be had--and think it
all over. That’s what I’ve been doing tonight.
“And did it soothe you?”
Rutile shook his head, doubtfully. “I’m not certain,” he admitted. “You
navy people have the best of it, after all. You haven’t got to agitate
your supposed brains. All you’ve got to do is to fight, and if you get
a chance to distinguish yourself the whole country knows it and the
Sunday newspapers call you heroes and clamor for your promotion. We
diplomats, on the other hand, are valuable in the inverse ratio that we
make it known.”
“Yes?” remarked Topham, languidly.
“Yes! Of course!” returned Rutile, impatiently. “We diplomats are the
real defenders of the peace. Suppose we had a war! All you fellows
could do would be to whip the enemy and if you did it you would get
medals and prize money and things. But I’ve prevented at least one
war and nobody knows anything about it except the last administration
at Washington and if there’s any deader tomb for a man’s achievements
than the last administration, I don’t know where it is--unless it’s the
administration before the last.”
Topham fidgeted. He was not very apt at speech. “What war did you
prevent?” he asked, at last, seeing that Rutile expected him to say
something.
“Oh! None of any special consequence,” returned the other
sarcastically, “Just a little bit of a war--one between Germany and the
United States.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Never less so. His Majesty Wilhelm was working to grab southern
Brazil two or three years ago and I checkmated him; knocked his plans
sky-high. If I hadn’t we’d have had to fight him or abandon the Monroe
Doctrine. And just because I did it so quietly nobody knew anything
about it, bright young men like you want to know whether I am serious;
even the Ambassador has his doubts on the subject.”
Topham was not listening. Rutile’s mention of Brazil had given him the
opening he desired.
“That reminds me,” he said, awkwardly, “What do you think of Count Ouro
Preto and his sister? Risdon was speaking of them this morning, you
know. They’re Brazilians, aren’t they?”
Rutile swallowed. It is not altogether pleasant to be checked so
abruptly when talking about one’s self. Then he laughed.
“You’re the directest ever!” he remarked. “Why didn’t you tell me you
wanted to know about the Countess Elsa, and save me telling you a lot
of stuff you didn’t listen to? I suppose you have found out that it was
she who crossed with you?”
Topham stared. “Yes!” he said. “Risdon pointed her out on the street
this morning and I recognized her. How did you guess?”
“Oh! Easily! Her name really is Elsa Ferreira, you know. The title is
very new--one of Dom Pedro’s creations just before he was turned out by
the republic. So she’s been to New York! She’s been missing from here
for about three weeks, and people have been wondering where she was.”
“Tell me something about her.”
Rutile threw up his hands. “I haven’t time to do justice to the
subject,” he declared. “She came to Berlin about six months ago, and
promptly got the whole hoch wohlgebornen bunch at her feet, men and
women too. She’s beautiful, but it isn’t altogether her looks, you
know; it’s her amazing knowledge of men and things. They say she hired
out once as a chambermaid and at another time worked in a factory
here. They also say that she was the masked unknown who caused such
a sensation by dancing as Salome for charity in the most outrageous
costume that ever--”
“I don’t believe it!” Topham’s face was flushed and his eyes glittered.
Rutile studied him curiously. The dispatches Topham had brought had
been devoted wholly to the Count and Countess del Ouro Preto. The navy
officer did not know this, of course, but Rutile felt very sure that
he believed the two were behind the efforts that had been made to rob
him of them. Knowing the fascinations of the countess, the secretary
had little hesitation in guessing that Topham had fallen a victim to
them. He wanted to warn him, but scarcely knew how to begin. After all,
Topham was going away in twenty-four hours, and the first canon of
friendship is “don’t butt in.”
So he changed the subject. “Hope you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he
observed.
“Finely! I went to your Thiergarten and met several people I knew--Lord
Maxwell, the British Ambassador, and young Ferreira--the Count del Ouro
Preto, I should say--and--”
“Ouro Preto!” Rutile was startled. “What did he want?”
Topham considered. “Nothing!” he answered. “He was full of his coming
audience with the emperor and--”
“Audience with the emperor!” Rutile was on his feet. “What do you mean?
Has Ouro Preto seen the emperor?”
Topham drew out his watch and consulted it. “Well!” he said. “It’s now
12:45, so I may safely say that he has. He was to be received at eleven
o’clock tonight.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well! not entirely! Ouro Preto himself said the appointment was for
ten o’clock tomorrow, but Lord Maxwell said it was for eleven tonight,
and I suspect that Ouro Preto was mistaken.”
Rutile sat down again, slowly. “So do I,” he replied, drily. “But what
I most want to know is, why did he tell you about it?”
Topham laughed. “Oh! he was too full of it to keep still. Pure
spontaneousness!”
“Spontaneous fiddlesticks! What did _you_ say? What did he ask you?”
“Why! I don’t know! Nothing important. Let’s see. I believe he said he
feared somebody might oppose the restoration of the dukedom, and that
he was afraid to speak to most people about it, but that he could talk
to me because of course the United States had no interest--”
“Oh!”
“Eh? Yes! I told him of course we hadn’t. Queer, though! Lord Maxwell
asked me later almost the same thing. Wanted to know whether the United
States objected to the Kaiser giving Ouro Preto his toy? As if the
United States had any interest in petty German dukedoms!”
Rutile threw up his hands. “Lord! Lord!” he cried. “I suppose you told
Maxwell that?” he queried.
“Of course. What the devil is the matter with you, Rutile?”
For an instant the secretary stared at the navy officer, without
speaking. “Look here, Topham,” he said at last. “I want to know
whether you are the guileless child I have always supposed you to be,
or whether you are so infernally deep that even I can’t fathom you.
Confound you, man, you’ve had me guessing ever since you got here.
You--”
Abruptly the secretary broke off and leaned forward. “What’s that?” he
questioned, whisperingly.
The night was very still. Traffic in the street outside had almost
ceased--for the moment had ceased altogether. Not even a footfall
sounded. But from somewhere close at hand there came a slight grating
sound.
“Sounds like somebody sawing,” muttered Topham. “What--
“Sshh!” A grin of perfect comprehension came over Rutile’s face.
“Gently!” he whispered. “Somebody’s trying to break into the embassy’s
rooms. And I think I can guess who it is. But we’ll give him the
surprise of his life. Come.”
He arose and tiptoed to the door of the adjoining room, and opened it
cautiously. Like the one in which the two had sat, this room was dark
except for the brilliant moonlight that streamed in at the uncurtained
windows. It was empty, but the sound of the sawing was much more
distinct. Evidently the would-be intruder was close at hand.
Silently Rutile approached the door that gave upon the corridor without
and pointed to the lock. Something was moving in and out just above
it, and in a moment Topham distinguished the blade of a saw working
through the woodwork. Four augur holes had been bored at the corners
of an imaginary square, and some one was slowly joining them, with the
evident intention of making an opening through which he might slip his
arm and shoot back the bolts.
Rutile looked at Topham with twinkling eyes. With a gesture for silence
he tiptoed to a closet and with infinite caution took out a light but
strong rope.
This he handed to Topham. “You’re a sailor,” he said under his breath.
“Make a dip noose.”
With an instant understanding of what he proposed, Topham hastily
knotted the line, and returned it to the secretary. The latter stepped
close to the door, where the saw had almost completed its work, and
stood waiting.
Soon the saw was drawn back, a finger appeared through the augur hole,
closed around the edge of the square and exerted a gentle pressure.
With scarcely a sound the wood yielded, and the piece was drawn gently
out.
With baited breath the two men waited. Evidently those without were
listening. Then an arm came through the hole and a hand began to feel
for the key. Instantly Rutile slipped his rope around the wrist, drew
it tight, and threw himself back on the rope.
A startled exclamation came from the outside, and then the prisoned
man began a desperate though silent struggle for liberty. But he was
at a terrible disadvantage. Inch by inch, his arm was drawn until his
body was fast against the door; then there was a sudden yielding. “My
God,” cried a voice. “Stop! You’re killing me. I surrender. I’ll tell
everything. I’ll-- Stop! Stop! Don’t strike! I’ll keep faith. I’ll--”
The words ended with a thick choking hiccough.
“Hold this, Topham,” ordered Rutile, passing over the rope. “I’ll ring
for the police.”
He pressed the burglar alarm on the wall, lighted the gas and was back
at the door. “Now we’ll see what we’ve caught,” he declared, turning
the key in the lock.
The door swung open and, with the relaxing of the rope, a man’s body
pitched down upon the threshold and lay there, his upturned face
ghastly in the glare of the gas jets. From his breast projected the
handle of a dagger, whose blade had been driven in to the hilt, and,
and across the white bosom of his shirt a crimson stain was widening.
It needed no second glance to see that he was dead.
Rutile studied the dark face. “Looks like a Spaniard or a
Spanish-American,” he decided. “Just about what I would have expected.
But I never saw him before!”
Topham said nothing. His brain was whirling. For he, at least, had seen
the man’s face before. It was that of the Spanish-American who had
given him the drugged cigarette--of the man whom he had seen only a
few hours before coming down the steps of the building that housed the
Countess Elsa.