They sat together at a small table, looking upon a scene which was
probably unique in the history of the great restaurant. The younger man
was both frankly interested and undoubtedly curious. Mr. Sabin, though
his eyes seemed everywhere, retained to the full extent that nonchalance
of manner which all his life he had so assiduously cultivated.
“It is wonderful, my dear Felix,” he said, leisurely drawing his
cigarette-case from his pocket, “wonderful what good fellowship can
be evolved by a kindred interest in sport, and a bottle or so of good
champagne. But, after all, this is not to be taken seriously.”
“Shamrock the fourth! Shamrock the fourth!”
A tall young American, his thick head of hair, which had once been
carefully parted in the middle, a little disheveled, his hard, clean-cut
face flushed with enthusiasm, had risen to his feet and stood with a
brimming glass of champagne high over his head. Almost every one in the
room rose to their feet. A college boy sprang upon a table with extended
arms. The Yale shout split the room. The very glasses on the table
rattled.
“Columbia! Columbia!”
It was an Englishman now who had leaped upon a vacant table with
upraised glass. There was an answering roar of enthusiasm. Every one
drank, and every one sat down again with a pleasant thrill of excitement
at this unique scene. Felix leaned back in his chair and marveled.
“One would have imagined,” he murmured, “that America and England
together were at war with the rest of the world and had won a great
victory. To think that this is all the result of a yacht race. It is
incredible!”
“All your life, my dear Felix,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “you have underrated
the sporting instinct. It has a great place amongst the impulses of the
world. See how it has brought these people together.”
“But they are already of the same kin,” Felix remarked. “Their interests
and aims are alike. Their destinies are surely identical.”
Mr. Sabin, who had lit his cigarette, watched the blue smoke curl
upwards, and was thoughtful for a moment.
“My dear Felix!” he said. “You are very, very young. The interests of
two great nations such as America and England can never be alike. It is
the language of diplomacy, but it is also the language of fools.”
Their conversation was for the moment interrupted by a fresh murmur of
applause, rising above the loved hum of conversation, the laughter of
women, and the popping of corks. A little troop of waiters had just
wheeled into the room two magnificent models of yachts hewn out of
blocks of solid ice and crowned with flowers. On the one were the Stars
and Stripes, on the other the Shamrock and Thistle. There was much
clapping of hands and cheering. Lady Carey, who was sitting at the next
table with her back to them, joined in the applause so heartily that
a tiny gold pencil attached to her bracelet became detached and rolled
unobserved to Mr. Sabin’s side. Felix half rose to pick it up, but was
suddenly checked by a quick gesture from his companion.
“Leave it,” Mr. Sabin whispered. “I wish to return it myself.”
He stooped and picked it up, a certain stealthiness apparent in his
movement. Felix watched him in amazement.
“It is Lady Carey’s, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes. Be silent. I will give it back to her presently.”
A waiter served them with coffee. Mr. Sabin was idly sketching something
on the back of his menu card. Felix broke into a little laugh as the man
retired.
“Mysterious as ever,” he remarked.
Mr. Sabin smiled quietly. He went on with his sketch.
“I do not want,” Felix said, “to seem impatient, but you must remember
that I have come all the way from Europe in response to a very urgent
message. As yet I have done nothing except form a very uncomfortable
third at a luncheon and tea party, and listen to a good deal of
enigmatic conversation between you and the charming Lady Carey. This
evening I made sure that I should be enlightened. But no! You have given
me a wonderful dinner--from you I expected it. We have eaten terrapin,
canvas-back duck, and many other things the names of which alone were
known to me. But of the reason for which you have summoned me here--I
know nothing. Not one word have you spoken. I am beginning to fear from
your avoidance of the subject that there is some trouble between you and
Lucille. I beg that you will set my anxiety at rest.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“It is reasonable,” he said. “Look here!”
He turned the menu card round. On the back he had sketched some sort of
a device with the pencil which he had picked up, and which instead of
black-lead contained a peculiar shade of yellow crayon. Felix sat as
though turned to stone.
“Try,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “and avoid that air of tragedy. Some of
these good people might be curious.”
Felix leaned across the table. He pointed to the menu card.
“What does that mean?” he muttered.
Mr. Sabin contemplated it himself thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I
rather thought that you might be able to explain that to me. I have
an idea that there is a society in Europe--sort of aristocratic
odd-fellows, you know--who had adopted it for their crest. Am I not
right?”
Felix looked at him steadfastly.
“Tell me two things,” he said. “First, why you sent for me, and
secondly, what do you mean--by that?”
“Lucille,” Mr. Sabin said, “has been taken away from me.”
“Lucille! Great God!”
“She has been taken away from me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without a single
word of warning.”
Felix pointed to the menu card.
“By them?” he asked.
“By them. It was a month ago. Two days before my cable.”
Felix was silent for several moments. He had not the self-command of his
companion, and he feared to trust himself to speech.
“She has been taken to Europe,” Mr. Sabin continued. “I do not know, I
cannot even guess at the reason. She left no word. I have been warned
not to follow her.”
“You obey?”
“I sail to-morrow.”
“And I?” Felix asked.
Mr. Sabin looked for, a moment at the drawing on the back of the menu
card, and up at Felix. Felix shook his head.
“You must know,” he said, “that I am powerless.”
“You may be able to help me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without compromising
yourself.”
“Impossible!” Felix declared. “But what did they want with Lucille?”
“That,” Mr. Sabin said, “is what I am desirous of knowing. It is what I
trust that you, my dear Felix, may assist me to discover.”
“You are determined, then, to follow her?”
Mr. Sabin helped himself to a liqueur from the bottle by his side.
“My dear Felix,” he said reproachfully, “you should know me better than
to ask me such a question.”
Felix moved uneasily in his chair.
“Of course,” he said, “it depends upon how much they want to keep you
apart. But you know that you are running great risks?”
“Why, no,” Mr. Sabin said. “I scarcely thought that. I have understood
that the society was by no means in its former flourishing condition.”
Felix laughed scornfully.
“They have never been,” he answered, “richer or more powerful. During
the last twelve months they have been active in every part of Europe.”
Mr. Sabin’s face hardened.
“Very well!” he said. “We will try their strength.”
“We!” Felix laughed shortly. “You forget that my hands are tied. I
cannot help you or Lucille. You must know that.”
“You cannot interfere directly,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “Yet you are
Lucille’s brother, and I am forced to appeal to you. If you will be my
companion for a little while I think I can show you how you can help
Lucille at any rate, and yet run no risk.”
The little party at the next table were breaking up at last. Lady Carey,
pale and bored, with tired, swollen eyes--they were always a little
prominent--rose languidly and began to gather together her belongings.
As she did so she looked over the back of her chair and met Mr. Sabin’s
eyes. He rose at once and bowed. She cast a quick sidelong glance at her
companions, which he at once understood.
“I have the honour, Lady Carey,” he said, “of recalling myself to your
recollection. We met in Paris and London not so very many years ago. You
perhaps remember the cardinal’s dinner?”
A slight smile flickered upon her lips. The man’s adroitness always
excited her admiration.
“I remember it perfectly, and you, Duke,” she answered. “Have you made
your home on this side of the water?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.
“Home!” he repeated. “Ah, I was always a bird of passage, you remember.
Yet I have spent three very delightful years in this country.”
“And I,” she said, lowering her tone and leaning towards him, “one very
stupid, idiotic day.”
Mr. Sabin assumed the look of a man who denies any personal
responsibility in an unfortunate happening.
“It was regrettable,” he murmured, “but I assure you that it was
unavoidable. Lucille’s brother must have a certain claim upon me, and it
was his first day in America.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she turned abruptly towards the door.
Her friends were already on the way.
“Come with me,” she said. “I want to speak to you.”
He followed her out into the lobby. Felix came a few paces behind. The
restaurant was still full of people, the hum of conversation almost
drowning the music. Every one glanced curiously at Lady Carey, who was a
famous woman. She carried herself with a certain insolent indifference,
the national deportment of her sex and rank. The women whispered
together that she was “very English.”
In the lobby she turned suddenly upon Mr. Sabin.
“Will you take me back to my hotel?” she asked pointedly.
“I regret that I cannot,” he answered. “I have promised to show Felix
some of the wonders of New York by night.”
“You can take him to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” Mr. Sabin said, “he leaves for the West.”
She looked closely into his impassive face.
“I suppose that you are lying,” she said shortly.
“Your candour,” he answered coldly, “sometimes approaches brutality.”
She leaned towards him, her face suddenly softened.
“We are playing a foolish game with one another,” she murmured. “I offer
you an alliance, my friendship, perhaps my help.”
“What can I do,” he answered gravely, “save be grateful--and accept?”
“Then--”
She stopped short. It was Mr. Sabin’s luck which had intervened. Herbert
Daikeith stood at her elbow.
“Lady Carey,” he said, “they’re all gone but the mater and I. Forgive my
interrupting you,” he added hastily.
“You can go on, Herbert,” she added. “The Duc de Souspennier will bring
me.”
Mr. Sabin, who had no intention of doing anything of the sort, turned
towards the young man with a smile.
“Lady Carey has not introduced us,” he said, “but I have seen you at
Ranelagh quite often. If you are still keen on polo you should have a
try over here. I fancy you would find that these American youngsters can
hold their own. All right, Felix, I am ready now. Lady Carey, I shall do
myself the honour of waiting upon you early to-morrow morning, as I have
a little excursion to propose. Good-night.”
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly as she turned away. Mr.
Sabin smiled--faintly amused. He turned to Felix.
“Come,” he said, “we have no time to lose.”