De Grost and his wife were dining together at the corner table in a
fashionable but somewhat Bohemian restaurant. Both had been in the humor
for reminiscences, and they had outstayed most of their neighbors.
“I wonder what people really think of us,” Violet remarked pensively. “I
told Lady Amershal, when she asked us to go there this evening, that we
always dined together alone somewhere once a week, and she absolutely
refused to believe me. ‘With your own husband, my dear?’ She kept on
repeating.”
“Her Ladyship’s tastes are more catholic,” the Baron declared dryly.
“Yet, after all, Violet, the real philosophy of married life demands
something of this sort.”
Violet smiled and fingered her pearls for a minute.
“What the real philosophy of married life may be I do not know,” she
said, “but I am perfectly content with our rendering of it. What a
fortunate thing, Peter, with your intensely practical turn of mind, that
nature endowed you with so much sentiment.”
De Grost gazed reflectively at the cigarette which he had just selected
from his case.
“Well,” he remarked, “there have been times when I have cursed myself
for a fool, but, on the whole, sentiment keeps many fires burning.”
She leaned towards him and dropped her voice a little. “Tell me,”
she begged, “do you ever think of the years we spent together in the
country? Do you ever regret?”
He smiled thoughtfully.
“It is a hard question, that,” he admitted. “There were days there which
I loved, but there were days, too, when the restlessness came, days when
I longed to hear the hum of the city and to hear men speak whose words
were of life and death and the great passions. I am not sure, Violet,
whether, after all, it is well for one who has lived to withdraw
absolutely from the thrill of life.”
She laughed, Softly but gayly.
“I am with you,” she declared, “absolutely. I think that the fairies
must have poured into my blood the joy of living for its own sake. I
should be an ungrateful woman indeed, if I found anything to complain
of, nowadays. Yet there is one thing that troubles me,” she went on,
after a moment’s pause.
“And that?” he asked.
“The danger,” she said, slowly. “I do not want to lose you, Peter. There
are times when I am afraid.”
De Grost flicked the ash from his cigarette.
“The days are passing,” he remarked, “when men point revolvers at one
another, and hire assassins to gain their ends. Now, it is more a battle
of wits. We play chess on the board of Life still, but we play with
ivory pieces instead of steel and poison. Our brains direct and not our
muscles.”
She sighed.
“It is only the one man of whom I am afraid. You have outwitted him so
often and he does not forgive.”
De Grost smiled. It was an immense compliment--this.
“Bernadine,” he murmured, softly, “otherwise, our friend the Count von
Hern.”
“Bernadine!” she repeated. “All that you say is true, but when one fails
with modern weapons, one changes the form of attack. Bernadine at heart
is a savage.”
“The hate of such a man,” De Grost remarked complacently, “is worth
having. He has had his own way over here for years. He seems to
have found the knack of living in a maze of intrigue and remaining
untouchable. There were a dozen things before I came upon the scene
which ought to have ruined him. Yet there never appeared to be anything
to take hold of. Even the Criminal Department once thought they had a
chance. I remember John Dory telling me in disgust that Bernadine was
like one of those marvelous criminals one only reads about in fiction,
who seem, when they pass along the dangerous places, to walk upon the
air, and, leave no trace behind.”
“Before you came,” she said, “he had never known a failure. Do you think
that he is a man likely to forgive?”
“I do not,” De Grost answered grimly. “It is a battle, of course, a
battle all the time. Yet, Violet, between you and me, if Bernadine were
to go, half the savor of life for me would depart with him.”
Then there came a curious and wholly unexpected interruption. A man in
dark, plain clothes, still wearing his overcoat, and carrying a bowler
hat, had been standing in the entrance of the restaurant for a moment or
two, looking around the room as though in search of some one. At last he
caught the eye of the Baron de Grost and came quickly toward him.
“Charles,” the Baron remarked, raising his eyebrows. “I wonder what he
wants.”
A sudden cloud had fallen upon their little feast. Violet watched the
coming of her husband’s servant, and the reading of the note which he
presented to his master, with an anxiety which she could not wholly
conceal. The Baron read the note twice, scrutinizing a certain part of
it closely with the aid of the monocle which he seldom used. Then he
folded it up and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat.
“At what hour did you receive this, Charles?” he asked.
“A messenger brought it in a taxicab about ten minutes ago, sir,” the
man replied. “He said that it was of the utmost importance, and that I
had better try and find you.”
“A district messenger?”
“A man in ordinary clothes,” Charles answered. “He looked like a porter
in a warehouse, or something of that sort. I forgot to say that you were
rung up on the telephone three times previously by Mr. Greening.”
The Baron nodded.
“You can go,” he said. “There is no reply.”
The man bowed and retired. De Grost called for his bill.
“Is it anything serious?” Violet inquired.
“No, not exactly serious,” he answered. “I do not understand what has
happened, but they have sent for me to go--well, where it was agreed
that I should not go except as a matter of urgent necessity.”
Violet knew better than to show any signs of disquietude.
“It is in London?” she asked.
“Certainly,” her husband replied. “I shall take a taxicab from here. I
am sorry, dear, to have one of our evenings disturbed in this manner. I
have always done my best to avoid it, but this summons is urgent.”
She rose and he wrapped her cloak around her.
“You will drive straight home, won’t you?” he begged. “I dare say that I
may be back within an hour myself.”
“And if not?” she asked, in a low tone.
“If not, there is nothing to be done.”
Violet bit her lip, but, as he handed her into the small electric
brougham which was waiting, she smiled into his face.
“You will come back, and soon, Peter,” she declared, confidently.
“Wherever you go I am sure of that. You see, I have faith in my star
which watches over you.”
He kissed her fingers and turned away. The commissionaire had already
called him a taxicab.
“To London Bridge,” he ordered, after a moment’s hesitation, and drove
off.
The traffic citywards had long since finished for the day, and he
reached his destination within ten minutes of leaving the restaurant.
Here he paid the man, and, entering the station, turned to the
refreshment room and ordered a liqueur brandy. While he sipped it, he
smoked a cigarette and carefully reread in a strong light the note which
he had received. The signature especially he pored over for some time.
At last, however, he replaced it in his pocket, paid his bill, and,
stepping out once more on to the platform, entered a telephone booth. A
few minutes later he left the station, and, turning to the right, walked
slowly as far as Tooley Street. He kept on the right-hand side until he
arrived at the spot where the great arches, with their scanty lights,
make a gloomy thoroughfare into Bermondsey. In the shadow of the first
of these he paused, and looked steadfastly across the street. There were
few people passing and practically no traffic. In front of him was a row
of warehouses, all save one of which was wrapped in complete darkness.
It was the one where some lights were still burning which De Grost stood
and watched.
The lights, such as they were, seemed to illuminate the ground
floor only. From his hidden post he could see the shoulders of a man
apparently bending over a ledger, diligently writing. At the next window
a youth, seated upon a tall stool, was engaged in presumably the same
occupation. There was nothing about the place in the least mysterious
or out of the way. Even the blinds of the offices had been left undrawn.
The man and the boy, who were alone visible, seemed, in a sense, to be
working under protest. Every now and then the former stopped to yawn,
and the latter performed a difficult balancing feat upon his stool. De
Grost, having satisfied his curiosity, came presently from his shelter,
almost running into the arms of a policeman, who looked at him closely.
The Baron, who had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, stopped to ask
for a light, and his appearance at once set at rest any suspicions the
policeman might have had.
“I have a warehouse myself down in these parts,” he remarked, as he
struck the match, “but I don’t allow my people to work as late as that.”
He pointed across the way, and the policeman smiled.
“They are very often late there, sir,” he said. “It’s a Continental wine
business, and there’s always one or two of them over time.”
“It’s bad business, all the same,” De Grost declared pleasantly. “Good
night, policeman!”
“Good night, sir!”
De Grost crossed the road diagonally, as though about to take the short
cut across London Bridge, but as soon as the policeman was out of sight
he retraced his steps to the building which they had been discussing,
and turning the battered brass handle of the door, walked calmly in. On
his right and left were counting houses framed with glass; in front,
the cavernous and ugly depths of a gloomy warehouse. He knocked upon the
window-pane on the right and passed forward a step or two, as though
to enter the office. The boy, who had been engaged in the left-hand
counting house, came gliding from his place, passed silently behind the
visitor and turned the key of the outer door. What followed seemed to
happen as though by some mysteriously directed force. The figures of men
came stealing out from the hidden places. The clerk who had been working
so hard at his desk calmly divested himself of a false mustache and
wig, and, assuming a more familiar appearance, strolled out into
the warehouse. De Grost looked around him with absolutely unruffled
composure. He was the centre of a little circle of men, respectably
dressed, but every one of them hard-featured, with something in
their faces which suggested not the ordinary toiler, but the fighting
animal--the man who lives by his wits and knows something of danger. On
the outskirts of the circle stood Bernadine.
“Really,” De Grost declared, “this is most unexpected. In the matter of
dramatic surprises, my friend Bernadine, you are certainly in a class by
yourself.”
Bernadine smiled.
“You will understand, of course,” he said, “that this little
entertainment is entirely for your amusement--well stage-managed,
perhaps, but my supers are not to be taken seriously. Since you are
here, Baron, might I ask you to precede me a few steps to the tasting
office?
“By all means,” De Grost answered cheerfully. “It is this way, I
believe.”
He walked with unconcerned footsteps down the warehouse, on either side
of which were great bins and a wilderness of racking, until he came to
a small, glass-enclosed office, built out from the wall. Without
hesitation he entered it, and removing his hat, selected the more
comfortable of the two chairs. Bernadine alone of the others followed
him inside, closing the door behind. De Grost, who appeared exceedingly
comfortable, stretched out his hand and took a small black bottle from a
tiny mahogany racking fixed against the wall by his side.
“You will excuse me, my dear Bernadine,” he said, “but I see my friend
Greening has been tasting a few wines. The ‘XX’ upon the label here
signifies approval. With your permission.”
He half filled a glass and pushed the bottle toward Bernadine.
“Greening’s taste is unimpeachable,” De Grost declared, setting down
his glass empty. “No use being a director of a city business, you know,
unless one interests oneself personally in it. Greening’s judgment is
simply marvelous. I have never tasted a more beautiful wine. If the
boom in sherry does come,” he continued complacently, “we shall be in an
excellent position to deal with it.”
Bernadine laughed softly.
“Oh, my friend--Peter Ruff, or Baron de Grost, or whatever you may
choose to call yourself,” he said, “I am indeed wise to have come to the
conclusion that you and I are too big to occupy the same little spot on
earth!”
De Grost nodded approvingly.
“I was beginning to wonder,” he remarked, “whether you would not soon
arrive at that decision.”
“Having arrived at it,” Bernadine continued, looking intently at his
companion, “the logical sequence naturally occurs to you.”
“Precisely, my dear Bernadine,” De Grost asserted. “You say to yourself,
no doubt, ‘One of us two must go!’ Being yourself, you would naturally
conclude that it must be I. To tell you the truth, I have been expecting
some sort of enterprise of this description for a considerable time.”
Bernadine shrugged his shoulders.
“Your expectations,” he said, “seem scarcely to have provided you with a
safe conduct.”
De Grost gazed reflectively into his empty glass.
“You see,” he explained, “I am such a lucky person. Your arrangements
to-night, however, are, I perceive, unusually complete.”
“I am glad you appreciate them,” Bernadine remarked dryly.
“I would not for a moment,” De Grost continued, “ask an impertinent or
an unnecessary question, but I must confess that I am rather concerned
to know the fate of my manager--the gentleman whom you yourself with the
aid, I presume, of Mr. Clarkson, so ably represented.”
Bernadine sighed.
“Alas!” he said, “your manager was a very obstinate person.”
“And my clerk?”
“Incorruptible, absolutely incorruptible. I congratulate you, De Grost.
Your society is one of the most wonderful upon the face of this earth. I
know little about it, but my admiration is very sincere. Their attention
to details, and the personnel of their staff, is almost perfect. I may
tell you at once that no sum that could be offered, tempted either of
these men.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” De Grost replied, “but I must plead guilty
to a little temporary anxiety as to their present whereabouts.”
“At this moment,” Bernadine remarked, “they are within a few feet of
us, but, as you are doubtless aware, access to your delightful river is
obtainable from these premises. To be frank with you, my dear Baron, we
are waiting for the tide to rise.”
“So thoughtful about these trifles,” De Grost murmured. “But their
present position? They are, I trust, not uncomfortable?”
Bernadine stood up and moved to the further end of the office. He
beckoned his companion to his side and, drawing an electric torch from
his pocket, flashed the light into a dark corner behind an immense
bin. The forms of a man and a youth, bound with ropes and gagged, lay
stretched upon the floor. De Grost sighed.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that Mr. Greening, at any rate, is most
uncomfortable.”
Bernadine turned off the light.
“At least, Baron,” he declared, “if such extreme measures should become
necessary, I can promise you one thing--you shall have a quicker passage
into Eternity than they.”
De Grost resumed his seat.
“Has it really come to that?” he asked. “Will nothing but so crude a
proceeding as my absolute removal satisfy you?”
“Nothing else is, I fear, practicable,” Bernadine replied, “unless you
decide to listen to reason. Believe me, my dear friend, I shall miss you
and our small encounters exceedingly, but, unfortunately, you stand in
the way of my career. You are the only man who has persistently balked
me. You have driven me to use against you means which I had grown to
look upon as absolutely extinct in the upper circles of our profession.”
De Grost peered through the glass walls of the office.
“Eight men, not counting yourself,” he remarked, “and my poor manager
and his faithful clerk lying bound and helpless. It is heavy odds,
Bernadine.”
“There is no question of odds, I think,” Bernadine answered smoothly.
“You are much too clever a person to refuse to admit that you are
entirely in my power.”
“And as regards terms? I really don’t feel in the least anxious to make
my final bow with so little notice,” De Grost said. “To tell you the
truth, I have been finding life quite interesting lately.”
Bernadine eyed his prisoner keenly. Such absolute composure was in
itself disturbing. He was, for the moment, aware of a slight sensation
of uneasiness, which his common sense, however, speedily disposed of.
“There are two ways,” he announced, “of dealing with an opponent.
There is the old-fashioned one--crude, but in a sense eminently
satisfactory--which sends him finally to adorn some other sphere.”
“I don’t like that one,” De Grost interrupted. “Get on with the
alternative.”
“The alternative,” Bernadine declared, “is when his capacity for harm
can be destroyed.”
“That needs a little explanation,” De Grost murmured.
“Precisely. For instance, if you were to become absolutely discredited,
I think that you would be effectually out of my way. Your people do not
forgive.”
“Then discredit me, by all means,” De Grost begged. “It sounds
unpleasant, but I do not like your callous reference to the river.”
Bernadine gazed at his ancient opponent for several moments. After
all, what was this but the splendid bravado of a beaten man, who is too
clever not to recognize defeat?
“I shall require,” he said, “your code, the keys of your safe, which
contains a great many documents of interest to me, and a free entry into
your house.”
De Grost drew a bunch of keys reluctantly from his pocket and laid them
upon the desk.
“You will find the code bound in green morocco leather,” he announced,
“on the left-hand side, underneath the duplicate of a proposed Treaty
between Italy and some other Power. Between ourselves, Bernadine, I
really expect that that is what you are after.”
Bernadine’s eyes glistened.
“What about the safe conduct into your house?” he asked.
De Grost drew his case from his pocket and wrote few lines on the back
of one of his cards.
“This will insure you entrance there,” he said, “and access to my study.
If you see my wife, please reassure her as to my absence.”
“I shall certainly do so,” Bernadine agreed, with a faint smile.
“If I may be pardoned for alluding to a purely personal matter,” De
Grost continued, “what is to become of me?”
“You will be bound and gagged in the same manner as your manager and his
clerk,” Bernadine replied, smoothly. “I regret the necessity, but you
see, I can afford to run no risks. At four o’clock in the morning, you
will be released. It must be part of our agreement that you allow the
man who stays behind the others for the purpose of setting you free, to
depart unmolested. I think I know you better than to imagine you would
be guilty of such gaucherie as an appeal to the police.”
“That, unfortunately,” De Grost declared, with a little sigh, “is,
as you well know, out of the question. You are too clever for me,
Bernadine. After all, I shall have to go back to my farm.”
Bernadine opened the door and called softly to one of his men. In less
than five minutes De Grost was bound hand and foot. Bernadine stepped
back and eyed his adversary with an air of ill-disguised triumph.
“I trust, Baron,” he said, “that you will be as comfortable as possible,
under the circumstances.”
De Grost lay quite still. He was powerless to move or speak.
“Immediately,” Bernadine continued, “I have presented myself at your
house, verified your safe conduct, and helped myself to certain
papers which I am exceedingly anxious to obtain,” he went on, “I shall
telephone here to the man whom I leave in charge and you will be set at
liberty in due course. If, for any reason, I meet with treachery and I
do not telephone, you will join Mr. Greening and his young companion
in a little--shall we call it aquatic recreation? I wish you a pleasant
hour and success in the future, Baron--as a farmer.”
Bernadine withdrew and whispered his orders to his men. Soon the
electric light was turned out and the place was in darkness. The front
door was opened and closed; the group of confederates upon the pavement
lit cigarettes and wished one another good night with the brisk air
of tired employees, released at last from long labors. Then there was
silence.
It was barely eleven when Bernadine reached the west end of London. His
clothes had become a trifle disarranged and he called for a few minutes
at his rooms in St. James’s Street. Afterwards, he walked to Porchester
House and rang the bell. To the servant who answered it, he handed his
master’s card.
“Will you show me the way to the library?” he asked. “I have some papers
to collect for the Baron de Grost.”
The man hesitated. Even with the card in his hand, it seemed a somewhat
unusual proceeding.
“Will you step inside, sir?” he begged. “I should like to show this
to the Baroness. The master is exceedingly particular about any one
entering his study.”
“Do what you like so long as you do not keep me waiting,” Bernadine
replied. “Your master’s instructions are clear enough.”
Violet came down the great staircase a few moments later, still in her
dinner gown, her face a little pale, her eyes luminous. Bernadine smiled
as he accepted her eagerly offered hand. She was evidently anxious. A
thrill of triumph warmed his blood. Once she had been less kind to him
than she seemed now.
“My husband gave you this!” she exclaimed.
“A few minutes ago,” Bernadine answered. “He tried to make his
instructions as clear as possible. We are jointly interested in a small
matter which needs immediate action.”
She led the way to the study.
“It seems strange,” she remarked, “that you and he should be working
together. I always thought that you were on opposite sides.”
“It is a matter of chance,” Bernadine told her. “Your husband is a wise
man, Baroness. He knows when to listen to reason.”
She threw open the door of the study, which was in darkness.
“‘If you will wait a moment,” she said, closing the door, “I will turn
on the electric light.”
She touched the knobs in the wall and the room was suddenly flooded with
illumination. At the further end of the apartment was the great safe.
Close to it, in an easy chair, his evening coat changed for a smoking
jacket, with a neatly tied black tie replacing his crumpled white
cravat, the Baron de Grost sat awaiting his guest. A fierce oath broke
from Bernadine’s lips. He turned toward the door only in time to hear
the key turn. Violet tossed it lightly in the air across to her husband.
“My dear Bernadine,” the latter remarked, “on the whole, I do not think
that this has been one of your successes. My keys, if you please.”
Bernadine stood for a moment, his face dark with passion. He bit his
lip till the blood came, and the veins at the back of his clenched hands
were swollen and thick. Nevertheless, when he spoke he had recovered in
great measure his self-control.
“Your keys are here, Baron de Grost,” he said, placing them upon the
table. “If a bungling amateur may make such a request of a professor,
may I inquire how you escaped from your bonds, passed through the door
of a locked warehouse and reached here before me?”
The Baron de Grost smiled as he pushed the cigarettes across to his
visitor.
“Really,” he said, “you have only to think for yourself for a moment, my
dear Bernadine, and you will understand. In the first place, the letter
you sent me signed ‘Greening’ was clearly a forgery. There was no one
else anxious to get me into their power, hence I associated it at once
with you. Naturally, I telephoned to the chief of my staff--I, too,
am obliged to employ some of these un-uniformed policemen, my dear
Bernadine, as you may be aware. It may interest you to know, further,
that there are seven entrances to the warehouse in Tooley Street.
Through one of these something like twenty of my men passed and were
already concealed in the place when I entered. At another of the doors a
motor-car waited for me. If I had chosen to lift my finger at any time,
your men would have been overpowered and I might have had the pleasure
of dictating terms to you in my own office. Such a course did not appeal
to me. You and I, as you know, dear Count von Hern, conduct our peculiar
business under very delicate conditions, and the least thing we either
of us desire is notoriety. I managed things, as I thought, for the best.
The moment you left the place my men swarmed in. We kindly, but gently,
ejected your guard, released Greening and my clerk, and I passed you
myself in Fleet Street, a little more comfortable, I think, in my
forty-horsepower motor-car than you in that very disreputable hansom.
As to my presence here, I have an entrance from the street there which
makes me independent of my servants. The other details are too absurdly
simple; one need not enlarge upon them.”
Bernadine turned slowly to Violet.
“You knew?” he muttered. “You knew when you brought me here?”
“Naturally,” she answered. “We have telephones in every room in the
house.”
“I am at your service,” Bernadine declared, calmly.
De Grost laughed.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “need I say that you are free to come or go,
to take a whiskey and soda with me, or to depart at once, exactly as
you feel inclined? The door was locked only until you restored to me my
keys.”
He crossed the room, fitted the key in the lock and turned it.
“We do not make war as those others,” he remarked, smiling.
Bernadine drew himself up.
“I will not drink with you,” he said, “I will not smoke with you. But
some day this reckoning shall come.”
He turned to the door. De Grost laid his finger upon the bell.
“Show Count von Hern out,” he directed the astonished servant who
appeared a moment or two later.