IN THE DRESSING-ROOM
The house was very quiet.
Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening
for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear.
The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at
any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding
his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none
of these interested him.
He had been in his room for more than half an hour; had long since
dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite
a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with
a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the
situation.
Having shown himself active in other directions, Séverac Bablon had
evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer
mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who,
defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No
precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police
protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been
made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard
lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer
anticipated mysterious outrage at any moment--and knew, instinctively,
that he would be unable to defend himself against it.
Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond
the walls, but from somewhere close at hand--from----
Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from
between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian
carpet.
His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw
dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big
wardrobe which occupied the space between the windows. Distinctly he
remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.
Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew
pale.
The doors were opening slowly!
No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.
Something gleamed out of the dark gap--a revolver barrel. Two fingers
pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words:
_"Do not move!"_
The warning was, at once, needless and disregarded. Rohscheimer shook
the chair with his tremblings.
A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.
The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook
grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled
starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it,
Rohscheimer made out the following:
"There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside
me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make
out a cheque for £100,000, payable to the editor of the _Gleaner_, and
also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the
fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet."
Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming
barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between
the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the
table.
It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck
another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting,
appeared:
"A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow
instructions--or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my
escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look
around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only
warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you."
Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed
momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer
came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous
cheque.
To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double
doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to
that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have
been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle
delivered from the mystic tripod.
Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as
follows--(what awful irony!):
"To the Editor of the _Gleaner_,
"SIR,--I enclose a cheque for £100,000" (as he wrote these dreadful
words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the
silence--the fearful silence--and the thought of the one who
watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote
on). "I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government
for purposes of ariel" (Rohscheimer was no scholar) "defence. I
hope others will follow suit." (He _did_. It was horrible to be
immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of
this priest of iconoclasm)--"I am, sir, yours, etc.
"JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER."
Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him,
threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even
now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near
to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.
Several heavy vehicles passed along the Lane. Rohscheimer listened
intently, but gathered no sound from amid those others that gave clue to
the enemy's movements.
Clutching at the table-edge he sat, and tasted of violent death, by
anticipation.
The traffic sounds subsided again. A new stillness was born. Within the
great house nothing moved. But still Julius Rohscheimer shook and
quivered. Only his mind was clearing; and already he was at work upon a
scheme to save his money.
One hundred thousand pounds. Heavens above! It was ruination!
A faint creak.
"Do not dare to look around again until you have my permission," read
the card before his eyes. "If you do so once I _may_ only warn you; if
you do so twice, I shall kill you."
One hundred thousand pounds! He could have cried. But, after all, he was
a rich man--a very rich man; not so rich as Oppner, nor even so rich as
Hague; but a comfortably wealthy man. Life was very good in his eyes.
There were those little convivial evenings--those week-end motoring
trips. He would take no chances. Life was worth more than one hundred
thousand pounds.
He did not glance around.
So, the minutes passed. They passed, for the most part, in ghostly
silence, sometimes broken by the hum of the traffic below, by the horn
of a cab or car. Nothing from within the house broke that nerve-racking
stillness.
If only there had been a mirror, so placed that by moving his eyes only
he could have obtained a glimpse of the wardrobe. But there was no
mirror so placed.
Faintly to his ears came the striking of a clock. He listened intently,
but could not determine if it struck the quarter, half, three-quarters,
or hour. Certainly, from the decrease of traffic in Park Lane, it must
be getting very late, he knew.
His limbs began to ache. Cautiously he changed the position of his
slippered feet. The clock in the hall began to strike. And Rohscheimer's
heart seemed to stand still.
It struck the half-hour. So it was half-past one! He had been sitting
there for an hour--an agonised hour!
What could the Unseen be waiting for?
Gradually his heart-beats grew normal again, and his keen mind got to
work once more upon the scheme for frustrating the audacious plan of
this robber who robbed from incredible motives.
An air fleet! What rot! What did he care about air fleets? One hundred
thousand pounds! But if he presented himself at the _Gleaner_ office as
soon as it opened that morning, and explained, before the editor (curse
him!) had had time to deal with his correspondence, that by an oversight
(late night; the editor, as a man of the world, would understand) he had
been thinking of a hundred and had written a hundred thousand, and also
had written too many noughts after the amount of his subscription to the
_Gleaner_ fund, what then? The editor could not possibly object to
returning him his cheque and accepting one for a thousand. A thousand
was bad enough; but a hundred thousand!
He was growing stiff again.
Two o'clock!
Beneath his eyes lay the card which read:
"If you do so once, I _may_ only warn you----"
A sudden burst of courage came to Julius Rohscheimer. Anything, he now
determined, was preferable to this suspense.
He began to turn his head.
It was a ruse, he saw it all; a ruse to keep him there, silent,
prisoned, whilst his cheque, his precious cheque, was placed in the
hands of the _Gleaner_ people.
Around he turned--and around. The corner of the wardrobe came within his
field of vision. Still farther he moved. The doors, now, were visible.
And the gleaming barrel pointed truly at his head!
"No; no!" he whispered tremulously, huskily. "Ah, God! no! Spare me! I
swear--I swear--I will not look again. I won't move. I'll make no
sound."
He dropped his head into his hands--quaking; the lamp, the table, were
swimming about him; he had never passed through ten such seconds of
dread as those which followed his spell of temerity.
Yet he lived--and knew himself spared. Not for _five_ hundred thousand
pounds would he have looked again.
The minutes wore on--became hours. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that
all London slept now; all London save one unhappy man in Park Lane.
Three o'clock, four o'clock, five o'clock struck. His head fell forward.
He aroused himself with a jerk. Again his head fell forward. And this
time he did not arouse himself; he slept.
* * * * *
"Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!"
There were voices about him. He could distinguish that of his wife.
Adeler was shaking him. Was that Haredale at the door?
Shakily, he got upon his feet.
"Why, Mr. Rohscheimer!" exclaimed Adeler, in blank wonderment, "have you
not been to bed?"
"What time?" muttered Rohscheimer, "what time----"
Sir Richard Haredale, who evidently thought that the financier had had
one of his "heavy nights," smiled discreetly.
"Pull yourself together, Rohscheimer!" he said. "Just put your head
under the tap and jump into a dressing-gown. The green one with golden
dragons is the most unique. You'll have to hold an informal reception
here in your dressing-room. We can't keep the Marquess waiting."
"The Marquess?" groaned Rohscheimer, clutching at his head. "The
Marquess?"
It had been his social dream for years to behold a real live Marquess
beneath that roof. He had gone so far as to offer Haredale five hundred
pounds down if he could bring one to dinner. But Haredale's best
achievement to date had been Lord Vignoles.
Rohscheimer's mind was a furious chaos. Had the horrors of the night
been no more than a dream, after all?
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, pressed forward and grasped both his hands.
Rohscheimer became ghastly pale.
"Mr. Rohscheimer," said the pressman, "England is proud of you! On such
occasions as this, all formality--_all_ formality--is swept away. A
great man is great anywhere--at any time, any place, in any garb! I have
Mrs. Rohscheimer's permission, and therefore am honoured to introduce to
this apartment the Premier, the Most Honourable the Marquess of
Evershed!"
Trembling wildly, fighting down a desire to laugh, to scream,
Rohscheimer stood and looked toward the door.
The Marquess entered.
He wore the familiar grey frock-coat, with the red rose in his
buttonhole, as made famous by _Punch_. His massive head he carried very
high, looking downward through the pebbles of the gold-rimmed pince-nez.
"No apologies, Mr. Rohscheimer!" he began, hand raised forensically.
"Positively I will listen to no apologies! This entire absence of
formality--showing that you had not anticipated my visit--delights me,
confirms me in my estimation of your character. For it reveals you as a
man actuated by the purest motive which can stir the human heart. I
refer to love of country--patriotism."
He paused, characteristically thrusting two fingers into his
watch-pocket. Sheard wrote furiously. Julius Rohscheimer fought for air.
"The implied compliment, Mr. Rohscheimer," continued the Premier, "to
myself, is deeply appreciated. I am, of course, aware that the idea of
this fund was suggested to its promoters by my speech at Portsmouth
regarding England's danger. The promptitude of the _Gleaner_ newspaper
in opening a subscription list is only less admirable than your own in
making so munificent a donation.
"My policy during my present term of office, as you are aware, Mr.
Rohscheimer, has been different, wholly different, from that of my
immediate predecessor. I have placed the necessity of Britain's ruling,
not only the seas, but the air, in the forefront of my programme----"
"Hear, hear!" murmured Sheard.
"And this substantial support from such men as yourself is very
gratifying to me. I cannot recall any incident in recent years which has
afforded me such keen pleasure. It is such confirmation of one's hopes
that he acts for the welfare of his fellow-countrymen which purifies and
exalts political life. And in another particular where my policy has
differed from that of my friends opposite--I refer to my _encouragement_
of foreign immigration--I have been nobly confirmed.
"Baron Hague, in recognition of the commercial support and protection
which our British hospitality has accorded to him, contributes fifty
thousand pounds to the further safeguarding of our national, though most
catholic, interests. At an early hour this morning, Mr. Rohscheimer, I
was aroused by a special messenger from the _Gleaner_ newspaper, who
brought me this glorious news of your noble, your magnificent, response
to my--to our--appeal. Casting ceremony to the winds, I hastened hither.
Mr. Rohscheimer--your hand!"
At that, Rohscheimer was surrounded.
"Socially," Haredale murmured in his ear, "you are made!"
"Financially," groaned Rohscheimer, "I'm broke!"
Mrs. Rohscheimer, in elegant _décolletée_, appeared among the excited
throng. She was anxious for a sight of her husband, whom she was
convinced had gone mad. Sheard thrust his way to the financier's side.
"Is there anything you would care to say for our next edition?" he
enquired, a notebook in his hand. "We're having a full-page photograph,
and----"
Crash! Crackle! Crackle! Crackle! A blinding light leapt up.
"My God! What's that?"
"All right," said Sheard. "Only our photographer doing a flash. If
there's anything you'd like to say, hurry up, because I'm off to
interview Baron Hague."
"Say that I believe I've gone mad!" groaned the financier, clutching his
hair, "and that I'm damn sure Hague has!"
Sheard laughed, treating the words as a witticism, and hurried away.
Mrs. Rohscheimer approached and bent over her husband.
"Have you pains in your head, dear?" she inquired anxiously.
"No!" snapped Rohscheimer. "I've got a pain in my pocket! I'm a ruined
man! I'll be the laughing-stock of the whole money market!"
Adeler reappeared.
"Adeler," said Rohscheimer, "get the rest of the people out of the
house! And, Adeler"--he glanced about him--"what did you do with those
cards that were on the table, here?"
Adeler stared.
"Cards, Mr. Rohscheimer? I saw none."
"Who came in here first this morning? Who woke me up?"
"I."
Rohscheimer studied the pale, intellectual face of his secretary with
uneasy curiosity.
"And there were no cards on the table--no cheque-book?"
"No."
"Sure you were first in?"
"I am not sure, but I think so. I found you fast asleep, at any rate."
"Why do you ask, dear?" said Mrs. Rohscheimer in growing anxiety.
"Just for a lark!" snapped her husband sourly. "I want to make Adeler
laugh!"
Haredale, who, failing Rohscheimer or Mrs. Rohscheimer, did the honours
of the house in Park Lane, returned from having conducted the Marquess
to his car. He carried a first edition copy of the _Gleaner_.
"They've managed to get it in, even in this one," he said. "When did you
send the cheque--early last evening?"
"Don't talk about it!" implored Rohscheimer.
"Why?" inquired Haredale curiously. "You must have seen your way to
something big before you spent so much money. It was a great idea!
You're certain of a knighthood, if not something bigger. But I wonder
you kept it dark from me."
"Ah!" said Rohscheimer. "Do you?"
"Very much. It's a situation that calls for very delicate handling.
Hitherto, because of certain mortgages, the Marquess has not prohibited
his daughter visiting here, with the Oppners or Vignoles; but you've
forced him, now, to recognise you _in propria persona_. He cannot very
well withhold a title; but you'll have to release the mortgage
gracefully."
"I'll do it gracefully," was the reply. "I'm gettin' plenty of practice
at chuckin' fortunes away, and smilin'!"
His attitude puzzled Haredale, who glanced interrogatively at Mrs.
Rohscheimer. She shook her head in worried perplexity.
"Go and get dressed, dear," said Rohscheimer, with much irritation. "I'm
not ill; I've only turned patriotic."
Mrs. Rohscheimer departing, Haredale lingered.
"Leave me alone a bit, Haredale," begged the financier. "I want to get
used to bein' a bloomin' hero! Send Lawson up in half an hour--and you
come too, if you wouldn't mind."
Haredale left the room.
As the door closed, Rohscheimer turned and looked fully at the wardrobe.
From the gap pointed a gleaming tube!
_"Ah!"_
He dropped back in his chair. Nothing moved. The activity of the
household stirred reassuringly about him. He stood up, crossed to the
wardrobe, and threw wide its doors.
In the pocket of a hanging coat was thrust a nickelled rod from a patent
trousers-stretcher, so that it pointed out into the room.
Rohscheimer stared--and stared--and stared.
"My God!" he whispered. "He slipped out directly he got the cheque, and
I sat here all night----"