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THE WORKS OF
E. PHILLIPS
OPPENHEIM
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN
McKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1905_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: "The girl's face shone like a piece of delicate
statuary" (_page 37_).
[_Frontispiece_.]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. A SUPPER PARTY AT THE "MILAN" 7
II. A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT 13
III. THE WARNING OF FELIX 22
IV. AT THE RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR'S 30
V. THE DILEMMA OF WOLFENDEN 39
VI. A COMPACT OF THREE 46
VII. WHO IS MR. SABIN? 52
VIII. A MEETING IN BOND STREET 61
IX. THE SHADOWS THAT GO BEFORE 69
X. THE SECRETARY 76
XI. THE FRUIT THAT IS OF GOLD 83
XII. WOLFENDEN'S LUCK 92
XIII. A GREAT WORK 104
XIV. THE TEMPTING OF MR. BLATHERWICK 111
XV. THE COMING AND GOING OF MR. FRANKLIN WILMOT 118
XVI. GENIUS OR MADNESS? 126
XVII. THE SCHEMING OF GIANTS 132
XVIII. "HE HAS GONE TO THE EMPEROR!" 141
XIX. WOLFENDEN'S LOVE-MAKING 146
XX. FROM A DIM WORLD 155
XXI. HARCUTT'S INSPIRATION 167
XXII. FROM THE BEGINNING 177
XXIII. MR. SABIN EXPLAINS 186
XXIV. THE WAY OF THE WOMAN 193
XXV. A HANDFUL OF ASHES 199
XXVI. MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY 207
XXVII. BY CHANCE OR DESIGN 213
XXVIII. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 220
XXIX. "IT WAS MR. SABIN" 227
XXX. THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-STORM 234
XXXI. "I MAKE NO PROMISE" 242
XXXII. THE SECRET OF MR. SABIN'S NIECE 253
XXXIII. MR. SABIN TRIUMPHS 263
XXXIV. BLANCHE MERTON'S LITTLE PLOT 269
XXXV. A LITTLE GAME OF CARDS 276
XXXVI. THE MODERN RICHELIEU 287
XXXVII. FOR A GREAT STAKE 295
XXXVIII. THE MEN WHO SAVED ENGLAND 304
XXXIX. THE HEART OF THE PRINCESS 314
XL. THE WAY TO PAU 319
XLI. MR. AND MRS. WATSON OF NEW YORK 327
XLII. A WEAK CONSPIRATOR 333
XLIII. THE COMING OF THE "KAISER WILHELM" 341
XLIV. THE GERMANS ARE ANNOYED 346
XLV. MR. SABIN IN DANGER 353
XLVI. MR. WATSON IS ASTONISHED 358
XLVII. A CHARMED LIFE 363
XLVIII. THE DOOMSCHEN 368
XLIX. MR. SABIN IS SENTIMENTAL 374
L. A HARBOUR TRAGEDY 378
LI. THE PERSISTENCE OF FELIX 383
LII. MRS. JAMES B. PETERSON, OF LENOX 388
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN
CHAPTER I
A SUPPER PARTY AT THE "MILAN."
"To all such meetings as these!" cried Densham, lifting his champagne
glass from under the soft halo of the rose-shaded electric lights. "Let
us drink to them, Wolfenden--Mr. Felix!"
"To all such meetings!" echoed his _vis-a-vis_, also fingering the
delicate stem of his glass. "An excellent toast!"
"To all such meetings as these!" murmured the third man, who made up the
little party. "A capital toast indeed!"
They sat at a little round table in the brilliantly-lit supper-room of
one of London's most fashionable restaurants. Around them were the usual
throng of well dressed men, of women with bare shoulders and flashing
diamonds, of dark-visaged waiters, deft, silent, swift-footed. The
pleasant hum of conversation, louder and more unrestrained as the hour
grew towards midnight, was varied by the popping of corks and many
little trills of feminine laughter. Of discordant sounds there were
none. The waiters' feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, the
clatter of plates was a thing unheard of. From the balcony outside came
the low, sweet music of a German orchestra played by master hands.
As usual the place was filled. Several late-comers, who had neglected to
order their table beforehand, had already, after a disconsolate tour of
the room, been led to one of the smaller apartments, or had driven off
again to where the lights from the larger but less smart Altone flashed
out upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was as
yet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young men
who were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It was
laid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a few
minutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the places
by the director of the rooms himself. A man's small visiting-card was
leaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by some
one of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to be
met by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whom
they had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the object
of some speculation to the three young men.
"Our neighbours," remarked Wolfenden, "are running it pretty fine. Can
you see whose name is upon the card, Densham?"
The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward.
Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away.
"No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son of
Israel!"
"His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable," Wolfenden
remarked. "I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do not
like to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper."
"The lady," Densham suggested, "is probably theatrical, and has to dress
after the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. I
wonder----"
"Sh-sh!"
The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked his
speech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round.
There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faint
suggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last the
table was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful white
dress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch of
creamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair for
her. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walked
with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him and
made some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, and
passing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of his
chair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, until
she should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsed
before they were settled in their places he glanced around the room with
a smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin,
well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him with
frank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of the
party, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden.
The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had been
temporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had been
interested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followed
them to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the man
distinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum of
conversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to one
another, and their questions were almost simultaneous.
"Who are they?"
"Who is she?"
Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix,
Wolfenden's guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived in
England, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did not
seem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, with
his back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upward
glance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking at
them. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards.
"I see Harcutt in the corner," he said. "He will know who they are for
certain. I shall go and ask him."
He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy little
party in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! not
one of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man who
prided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless as
the rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it.
"I never saw either of them before in my life," he said. "I cannot
imagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners."
"Very likely," Wolfenden agreed quietly. "In fact, I never doubted it.
An English girl of that age--she is very young by the bye--would never
be so perfectly turned out."
"What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden," exclaimed the woman
on whose chair his hand was resting. "Don't you know that dressing is
altogether a matter of one's maid? You may rely upon it that that girl
has found a treasure!"
"Well, I don't know," Wolfenden said, smiling. "Young English girls
always seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girl
is dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet with
the simplicity of a child."
The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders.
"I agree with you," she said, "that she is probably not English. If she
were she would not wear such diamonds at her age."
"By the bye," Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, "we shall be
able to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved,
so the name will be on the list at the door."
His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed the
room with Wolfenden.
"We may as well have our coffee together," he said. "I ordered Turkish
and I've been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo!
where's your other guest?"
Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly.
"Your friend Felix has gone," he announced. "Suddenly remembered an
engagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he'd look
you up to-morrow."
"Well, he's an odd fellow," Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to the
vacant place. "His looks certainly belie his name."
"He's not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party," Densham
admitted, "but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden,
and where does he hail from?"
"He's a junior attache at the Russian Embassy," Wolfenden said, stirring
his coffee. "Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a line
of introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I looked
him up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and asked
you both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?"
The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily.
At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty.
The advent of these two people at the next table had produced an
extraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the least
affected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who had
embraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with his
profession. Partly on account of his social position, which was
unquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction,
he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. His
pen was easy and fluent. He was an inimitable maker of short paragraphs.
He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He could
have told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter,
was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden's allowance
from his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, a
humiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eager
questions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequently
Wolfenden's inquiries. The thought that very soon at any rate their name
would be known to him was, in a sense, a consolation. The rest would be
easy. Until he knew all about them he meant to conceal so far as
possible his own interest.