LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN
Zoe was waiting for Lady Mary Evershed. Lady Mary was late--an
unremarkable circumstance, since Lady Mary was a woman, and less
remarkable than ordinarily for the reason that Lady Mary had met Sir
Richard Haredale on the way. At the time she should have been at the
Astoria she was pacing slowly through St. James's Park, beside Haredale.
"My position is becoming impossible, Mary," he said, with painful
distinctness. "Every day seems to see the time more distant, instead of
nearer, when I can say good-bye to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer. My situation
is little better than that of his secretary. By hard work, and it _is_
hard work to act as Rohscheimer's social Virgil!--and by harder
self-repression, I have struggled to earn enough to enable me to cry
quits with the other rogues who preyed upon me, when--before I knew you.
I've scarcely a shred of self-respect left, Mary!"
She looked down at the gravelled path and made no answer to his
self-accusation.
"It is only my sense of humour that has saved me. But one day I shall
break out! It is inevitable. I cannot pander for ever to Rohscheimer's
social ambitions. Yet, if I show fight, he will break me! Saving the
prospect--with a hale and hearty uncle intervening, and one of the best;
may he live to be a hundred!--of the title, and all that goes with it,
what have I to offer you, Mary? I am a man sailing under false colours.
Practically, I am a salaried servant of Rohscheimer's. I don't actually
draw my salary; but in recognition of my services in popularising his
wife's entertainments, he keeps the vultures at bay! Bah! I despise
myself!"
Mary looked up to him, tenderly reproachful.
"You silly boy!" she said. "There is nothing dishonourable in what you
do!"
"Possibly not. But how would your father like to know of my position."
She lowered her eyes again.
"Is my father indebted to Julius Rohscheimer in any way, Dick?" she
asked suddenly.
Haredale laughed nervously.
"Rohscheimer does not honour me with the whole of his confidence in
financial matters," he replied. "It is a question Adeler would be better
able to answer."
"Mr. Adeler, yes. What a singular man! Do you know, Dick, in spite of
father's ideas respecting our old English aristocracy, I have sometimes
felt, in Mr. Adeler's presence, that he, though a Jew, was a thousand
times more of an aristocrat than I?"
Haredale glanced at her oddly.
"I have at times been conscious of a similar feeling!" he said. "No
doubt one's instincts are true enough. Adeler's pedigree conceivably may
go back to Jewish nobles who entertained monarchs in their marble
palaces when the Eversheds and Haredales considered several streaks of
red ochre an adequate costume for the most important functions."
He laughed boyishly at his own words.
"Oh, Dick!" said Mary. "How absurd of you. It is impossible to imagine
an Evershed in such a condition. But yet, you are right. How singular
that most people should overlook so obvious a fact; that there is a
Jewish aristocracy, possibly one of the most ancient in the world."
"The Jews are an Eastern people," replied Haredale. "That is the fact
which is generally overlooked. They are, excepting one, the most
remarkable people in the modern world."
"Do you know," said the girl, unconsciously lowering her voice, "I have
sometimes thought that Séverac Bablon was in some way connected----"
"Yes?"
"With the ancient history of the Jews!"
"What do you mean exactly?"
"I can hardly explain. But at the Rohscheimers, on the night of the
ball, Séverac Bablon was masked, of course; yet it seemed to me----"
"Mary," interrupted Haredale, "don't tell me that you believe the
romantic stories circulating about the man!"
"What stories, Dick?"
"Why, about his holding the Seal of Suleyman, whatever that may be----"
"But Mrs. Elschild says he _does_!"
Haredale started.
"How can she possibly know?"
A flush tinged Lady Mary's clear complexion for a moment, and left it
paler than it was wont to be. She despised a woman who could not
preserve a secret (and therefore must have had a poor opinion of her
sex), yet she had nearly allowed her own tongue to betray her. Whatever
Mrs. Elschild had told her had been told in confidence, and under the
seal of friendship.
"Perhaps she does not know. Someone may have told her."
"It's all over London," said Haredale; "in the clubs, everywhere! I
wonder you have not heard it before. There seems to be an organised
attempt to glorify this man, who, after all, is no more than an
up-to-date highwayman. Someone has spread the absurd story that he is of
Jewish royal blood; whereas the royal line of the Jews must have been
extinct for untold generations!"
"Why must it? You have just said that the Jews are an Eastern people.
And all Eastern peoples are subtle and secretive. I invariably lose half
of my self-importance in Egypt, for instance. There is something in the
eye of the meanest _fellah_ which is painfully like patronage!"
Haredale shrugged his shoulders.
"What a thing it is," he said humorously, "to be born with black hair,
flashing eyes and an olive skin! One can then be any kind of mountebank
or robber, and yet rest assured of the ladies' homage."
They walked on in silence for awhile. Then--
"Heaven knows what happened to Rohscheimer," said Haredale abruptly, "to
have frightened him into writing such a stupendous cheque! I may hear,
later, but thus far he is too sore to touch upon the matter!"
"My father has visited him."
"At last--yes! Do you remember when Rohscheimer offered me five hundred
pounds if I could induce the Marquess to come to dinner? Gad! He came
perilously near to a just retribution that day! I think if I had been in
uniform I should have run him through!"
"These extraordinary donations of course are the sequel to the
mysterious business of the card and the unseen hand?"
"Certainly. Séverac Bablon is at the bottom of the whole business. I
described the device, introducing two triangles, do you remember, which
appeared on the cards, to a chap at the club who is rather a learned
Orientalist, and he assured me that, so far as he could judge from my
description, it corresponded with that of the supposed seal of Solomon.
I was unable to remember part of the design, of course. But, at any
rate, this merely goes to prove that Bablon is an accomplished showman."
"I am afraid I must be going, Dick. I have to meet Zoe Oppner."
"Let's go and find a cab, then. But it was so delightful to have you all
to myself, Mary, if only for a very little while."
The boyishness had gone out of his voice again, and Lady Mary knew all
too well of what he was thinking. She took his arm and pressed it hard.
"I don't think anyone was ever in such a dreadful position in the world
before, Dick!" she declared. "To tolerate it seems impossible, seems
wrong. But to defy Rohscheimer, with your affairs as they are,
means--what does it mean, Dick?"
"I dare not think what it means, Mary," he replied. "Not when _you_ are
with me. But one day--soon, I am afraid--it will all be taken out of my
hands. I shall tell Mr. Julius Rohscheimer exactly what I think of him,
and there will be an end of the whole arrangement."
They said no more until the girl was entering the cab. Then:
"_I_ understand, Dick," she whispered, "and nobody else knows, so try to
be diplomatic for a little longer."
Holding her hand, he looked into her eyes. Then, without another word
between them, the cab moved off, and Haredale stood looking after it
until it was lost amid the traffic. He started to walk across to Park
Lane.
At the Astoria Zoe was waiting patiently. But when, at last, Mary found
herself in her friend's room, the gloomy companionship of the thoughts
with which she had been alone since leaving Haredale, proved too
grievous to be borne alone. She threw herself on to a cushioned settee,
and her troubles found vent in tears.
"Mary, dear!" cried Zoe, all that was maternal protective in her nature,
asserting itself. "Tell me all about it."
The unruly mop of her brown hair mingled with the gold of her friend's,
and presently, between sobs, the story was told--an old, old story
enough.
"He will have to resign his commission," she sobbed. "And then he will
have to go abroad! Oh, Zoe! I know it must come soon. Even _I_ cannot
expect him, nor wish him to dance attendance on that odious Julius
Rohscheimer for ever! And he makes so little headway."
Zoe's little foot beat a soft tatoo upon the carpet.
"I wonder--will there always be a Julius Rohscheimer for him to dance
attendance upon!" she said softly.
Mary raised her tearful eyes.
"What do you mean, Zoe?"
"Has it never occurred to you that--Séverac Bablon will ultimately make
a poor man of Rohscheimer?"
"Oh! I should not like to think that, because----"
"If he went that far, he might do the same for Pa. I can't believe that,
Mary. Pa's awful mean, but after all his money is cleaner than
Rohscheimer's."
Mary dried her eyes.
"I hardly know whether to regard that strange man, Séverac Bablon, as a
friend or a foe," she said. "He certainly seems to confine his outrages
to those who have plenty but object to spending it."
"Except on themselves! He's a friend right enough, Mary. I believe he is
anxious to reveal all these rich people in a new light, to whitewash
them. If only they would change their ideas and do some good with their
money, I don't think they would be troubled any more by Séverac Bablon.
You never hear of Mr. Elschild being robbed by him--nor any of the
family suffering in any way."
"Mr. Elschild received one of the mysterious cards, and he has sent a
big cheque to the _Gleaner_ fund."
"He has to keep up appearances, Mary, don't you see? But it is certain
that he sent the money quite voluntarily. He did not wait to be
squeezed. I wish Pa would come to his senses. If, instead of spending a
small fortune on private detectives, he would start to use his money for
good, he would have no further need for the Pinkerton men. Certainly he
would not be made to buy airships for England!"
A smile dawned upon Lady Mary's face.
"Isn't it preposterous!" she said. "The idea of raising money for such a
purpose from people like Baron Hague!"
"Baron Hague left for Berlin this morning. We shall probably never know
under what circumstances he issued his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!
Doesn't it seem just awful, with all this money floating about, that
poor Sir Richard is nearly stranded for quite a trifle!"
"Oh, it is dreadful! And I can see no way out."
"No," murmured Zoe. "Yet there must be a way."
She walked to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully upon the
Embankment far below.
What a strange, complex drama moved about her! It was impossible even to
determine for what parts some of the players were cast. Where, she
wondered, was Inspector Sheffield now? And where was Séverac Bablon? So
far as she was aware, both were actually in the Astoria. There was
something almost uncanny in the elusiveness of Séverac Bablon. His
disdain of all attempts to compass his downfall betokened something more
than bravado. He must _know_ himself immune.
Why?
If what he had rather hinted than declared were true--and never for a
moment did she doubt his sincerity--then his accomplices, his friends,
his subjects (she knew not how to name them), must be numberless. Was
she, herself, not of their ranks?
Of the thousands who moved beneath her, upon trams, in cabs, in cars, on
foot, how many were servants of that mysterious master? It was
fascinating, yet terrifying, this inside knowledge of a giant
conspiracy, of which, at that moment, the civilised world was talking.
Mary Evershed's voice broke in upon her musing:
"Come along, Zoe. We shall never be back in time for lunch if we don't
hurry."
They descended in the lift and walked out to where Mr. Oppner's big car
awaited them. A moment later, as the man turned out into the Strand,
Sheard passed close by upon the pavement. He raised his hat to the two
pretty travellers. Clearly, he was bound for the Astoria.
And a few yards further on, unobtrusively walking behind a very large
German tourist, appeared the person of Mr. A. X. Alden.
"Why!" whispered Zoe. "I believe he is following Mr. Sheard."
Her surmise was correct. The astute Mr. Alden had found himself at a
loss to account for some of the exclusive items respecting the doings of
Séverac Bablon which latterly had been appearing in the _Gleaner_. By
dint of judiciously oiling the tongue of a chatty compositor, he had
learned that the unique copy was contributed by Mr. H. T. Sheard. Mr.
Oppner had advised him to keep a close watch upon the movements of Mr.
Antony Elschild. Although Alden found it hard to credit the idea that
the great Elschild family should be in any way associated with the
campaign of brigandage, Mr. Oppner was more open-minded.
Now Alden, too, was beginning to wonder. There seemed to be a friendship
between Elschild and the pressman; and Sheard, from some source
evidently unopen to his fellow copy-hunters, obtained much curious
information anent Séverac Bablon. One of Alden's American colleagues
accordingly was devoting some unobtrusive attention to whomsoever came
and went at the Elschild establishment in Lombard Street, whilst Alden
addressed himself to the task of shadowing Sheard.
When the latter walked into the lobby of the Astoria, Mr. Alden was not
far away.
"Has Mr. Gale of New York arrived yet?" was the pressman's inquiry.
Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.
Upon learning which, Sheard seemed to hesitate, glancing about him as if
suspicious of espionage. Mr. Alden, deeply engaged, or so it appeared,
in selecting a cigar at the stall, was all ears--and through a mirror
before which he had intentionally placed himself, he could watch
Sheard's movements whilst standing with his back towards him.
At last Sheard took out his notebook and hastily scribbled something
therein. Tearing out the leaf, he asked for an envelope, which the boy
procured for him. With the closed book as a writing-pad, he addressed
the envelope. Then, enclosing the note, carefully sealed up the message,
and handed it to the boy, glancing about him the while with a palpable
apprehension.
Finally, lighting a cigarette with an air of nonchalance but ill
assumed, Sheard strolled out of the hotel.
He had not passed the door ere Alden was clamouring for an hotel
envelope. The boy was just about to enter a lift as the detective darted
across the lobby and entered with him. Short as the time at his disposal
had been, Mr. Alden had scrawled some illegible initial followed by
"Gale, Esq.," upon the envelope, and had stuck down the flap.
The boy quitted the lift on the fourth floor. So did Alden. One or two
passengers joined at that landing, but the unsuspecting boy went on his
way along the corridor, turned to the right and rapped on a door
numbered 63.
"Come in," he was instructed.
He entered, tray in hand. A tanned and bearded gentleman who was busily
engaged unpacking a large steamer trunk, looked up inquiringly.
"Gentleman couldn't wait, sir," said the boy, and proffered the message.
The bearded man took the envelope, drew his brows together in an
endeavour to recognise the scrawly handwriting; failed, and tore the
envelope open.
It was empty!
"See here, boy! What's the game?"
He threw the envelope on the floor beside him and stared hard at the
page.
"Excuse me, sir"--the boy was frightened--"excuse me, sir; but I saw the
gentleman put a note in!"
"Did you!" laughed the American, readily perceiving that whoever the
joker might be the boy was innocent of complicity. "You mean, you
thought you did! See here, what was he like?"
The boy described Sheard, and described him so aptly that he was
recognised.
"That's Sheard," muttered the recipient of the empty envelope. "It's
Sheard, sure! Right oh! I'll ring him up at the office in a minute and
see what sort of game he's playing. Here boy, stick that in your pocket;
you might make a descriptive writer, but you'll never shine at sleight
of hand! You didn't watch that envelope half close enough!"
Thus, the man to whom the note was addressed. Let us glance at Mr. Alden
again.
Having effected the substitution with the ease of a David Devant, he
hastened to a quiet corner to inspect his haul. He was not unduly
elated. He had been prompt and clever, but in justice to him, it must be
admitted that he was a clever man. Therefore he regarded the incident
merely as part of the day's work. His success wrought no quickening of
the pulse.
In a little palmy balcony which overlooked the lobby he took the
envelope from his pocket. It bore the inscription:
RADLEY GALE, ESQ.
Quietly, his cheroot stuck in a corner of his mouth, he opened
it--tearing the end off as all Americans do. He pulled out the scribbled
note, and read as follows:
"MY DEAR GALE,--Don't forget that we're expecting your wife and
yourself along about 7. I will say no more as I rather think an
impudent American detective (?) is going to purloin this note.
"SHEARD."
Mr. Alden carefully replaced the torn leaf in the envelope, and the
envelope in his case. He rolled his smoke from the left corner of his
mouth to the right, and, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, walked
slowly downstairs. He was not offended. Mr. Aloys. X. Alden was a Stoic
who had known for many years that he was not the only clever man in the
world.