[Frontispiece: Without a word she glided from the room (page 47)]
THE OTHER MAN
BY
EDGAR WALLACE
_Illustrations by T. J. FOGARTY_
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1911
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
_Published May_, 1911
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I N. H. C.
II A Business Consultation
III In Which a Certain Momentous Question is Asked
IV Which Relates to a Newspaper Suicide
V Count Poltavo Offers His Services
VI A Stranger Comes to Burgos
VII Some Disappearances
VIII The Ambassador Takes a Hand
IX Introducing T. B. Smith
X The Anticipators
XI At Bronte's Bank
XII Murder
XIII Hyatt
XIV Sir George Dines
XV The Dancing Girl
XVI Mary Brown
XVII Deportation
XVIII In the "Journal" Office
XIX The Book
XX At the Admiralty
XXI Poltavo Strikes
XXII The Convict from Ceuta
CHAPTER I
N. H. C.
It was a bad night in London, not wild or turbulent, but swathed to
the eyes like an Eastern woman in a soft grey garment of fog. It
engulfed the walled canyons of the city through which the traffic had
roared all day, plugged up the maze of dark side streets, and blotted
out the open squares. Close to the ground it was thick, viscous,
impenetrable, so that one could not see a yard ahead, and walked
ghostlike, adventuring into a strange world.
Occasionally it dispersed. In front of the opera house, numbers of
arc-lights wrought a wavering mist-hung yellow square, into which a
constant line of vehicles like monstrous shiny bugs emerged from the
outer nowhere, disgorged their contents, and eclipsed again. And
pedestrians in gay processional streamed across the ruddy glistening
patch like figures on a slide.
Conspicuous in the shifting throng was a boy, ostensibly selling
violets, but with a keen eye upon the arriving vehicles. Suddenly he
darted to the curb, where an electric coupe had just drawn up. A man
alighted heavily, and turned to assist a young woman.
For an instant the lad's attention was deflected by the radiant
vision. The girl, wrapped in a voluminous cloak of ivory colour, was
tall and slim, with soft white throat and graceful neck; her eyes
under shadowy lashes were a little narrow, but blue as autumn mist,
and sparkling now with amusement.
"Watch your steps, auntie," she warned laughingly, as a plump elderly
little lady descended stiffly from the coupe. "These London fogs are
dangerous."
The boy stood staring at her, his feet as helpless as if they had
taken root in the ground. Suddenly he remembered his mission. His
native impudence reasserted itself, and he started forward.
"Voylets, lidy? Wear your colours. You ain't allowed to trot
without."
The girl gazed at him, her blue eyes bright as stars on a windy
night. An enchanting dimple twinkled about her curved lips in gay
hide-and-seek, and when she laughed, fled upward to her eyes.
"Father," she said, "will you buy my colours from this bold sporting
gentleman?"
As the man fumbled in an inner pocket for change, the lad took a
swift inventory. The face, beneath the tall hat, was a powerful
oval, paste-coloured, with thin lips, and heavy lines from nostril to
jaw. The eyes were close-set and of a turbid grey.
"It's him," the boy assured himself, and opened his mouth to speak.
"So you are a sporting man," the girl rallied him gaily, adjusting
the flowers.
The boy nodded, responding instantly to her mood.
"Only," he swept her with shrewd, appraising eyes, that noted every
detail of her delicate beauty and sumptuousness, "I don't trot in the
two-minute class myself."
The girl laughed a clear silvery peal, and turned impulsively to the
young man in evening dress who had just dismissed his hansom and
joined the group.
It was the diversion the boy had prayed for. He took a quick step
toward the older man.
"N.," he said in a soft but distinct undertone.
The man's face blanched suddenly, and a coin which he held in his
large, white-gloved palm, slipped jingling to the pavement.
The young messenger stooped and caught it up dextrously.
"N.," he whispered again, insistently.
"H.," the answer came hoarsely. The man's lips trembled.
"C.," finished the boy promptly and with satisfaction. Under cover
of returning the coin, he thrust a slip of white paper into the
other's hand.
Then he wheeled, ducked to the girl with a gay little swagger of
impudence, threw a lightning glance of scrutiny at her young escort,
and turning, was lost in the throng.
The whole incident occupied less than a minute, and presently the
four were seated in their box, and the throbbing strains from the
overture of _I Pagliacci_ came floating up to them.
"I wish I were a little street gamin in London," said the girl
pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. "Think of the
adventures! Don't you, Cord?"
"Don't I wish _you_ were?" Cord Van Ingen looked across at her with
smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.
"No," he said softly, "I do not!"
The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.
"For a young diplomat, Cord, you are too obvious--too delightfully
verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse--study
Poltavo!"
At the name the boy's brow darkened.
"Study the devil!" he muttered under his breath.
"That too, for a diplomat, is necessary!" she murmured sweetly.
"He isn't coming here to-night?" Van Ingen asked in aggrieved tones.
The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.
"What you can see in that man, Doris," he protested, "passes me!
I'll bet you anything you like that the fellow's a rogue! A smooth,
soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore," he appealed to the older woman,
"do you like him?"
"Oh, don't ask Aunt Patricia!" cried the girl. "She thinks him quite
the most fascinating man in London. Don't deny it, auntie!"
"I shan't," said that lady calmly, "for it's true! Count Poltavo,"
she paused to inspect through her lorgnettes some newcomers in the
opposite box, "Count Poltavo is the only interesting man in London.
He is a genius." She shut her lorgnettes with a snap. "It delights
me to talk with him. He smiles and murmurs gay witticisms and quotes
Talleyrand and Lucullus, and all the while in the back of his head,
quite out of reach, his real opinions of you are being tabulated and
ranged neatly in a row, like bottles on a shelf."
"I'd like to take down some of those bottles," said Doris
thoughtfully. "Maybe some day I shall."
"They're probably labelled poison," remarked Van Ingen, a little
viciously. He looked at the girl with a growing sense of injury. Of
late she had seemed absolutely changed toward him; and from being his
dear friend, his childhood's mate, with established intimacies, she
had turned before his very eyes into an alien, almost an enemy, more
beautiful than ever, to be true, but perverse, mocking, impish. She
flouted him for his youth, his bluntness, his guileless transparency.
But hardest of all to bear was the delicate derision with which she
treated his awkward attempts to express his passion for her, to speak
of the fever which had taken possession of him, almost against his
will, and which at sight of her throbbed madly at his wrists and
temples. And now, he reflected bitterly, with this velvet fop of a
count looming up as a possible rival, with his _savoir faire_, and
his absurd penchant for literature and art, what chance had he, a
plain American, against such odds?--unless, as he profoundly
believed, the chap was a crook. He determined to sound her father.
"Mr. Grayson," he asked aloud, "what do _you_ think--halloo!" He
sprang up suddenly and thrust out a supporting arm.
Grayson had risen, and stood swaying slightly upon his feet. He was
frightfully pale, and his countenance was contracted as if in pain.
He lifted a wavering hand to his brow.
"I--I feel ill," he said faintly. His hand fell limply to his side.
He took a staggering step toward the door.
Van Ingen was beside him instantly.
"Lean on me, sir," he urged quietly.
He passed a steadying hand through Grayson's, and guided him toward
the passage.
"We'll have you out of this in a jiffy," he said cheerfully. "It's
the confounded stifling air of these places! It's enough to make a
grampus faint! Lady Dinsmore, will you look after Doris?"
"No! No!" the girl exclaimed. Her face was white and strained and
fear darkened her eyes. In her distress she had risen, and stood,
clasping tightly her father's arm.
"We'll all go together! Please, dear!" Her voice and eyes pleaded.
She seemed trying to convey a hidden meaning, a secret urgency.
"Nonsense!" Grayson, still pallid and frowning, leaned heavily upon
Van Ingen's shoulder. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his
temples but his voice was stronger.
"Don't make a scene, my girl." He nodded toward the stalls, where
already curious lorgnettes were beginning to be levelled at their box.
"Sit down!"
Doris obeyed mutely, her mobile lips quivering as she sought to
suppress her emotion. She was conscious of a shiver which seemed to
spread from her heart throughout her limbs. The oppression of a
nameless fear took possession of her; it weighed her down. She sat
very still, gripping her fan.
"I'll be around fit as ever in the morning. 'Night, Lady Dinsmore.
Take care of my girl." Grayson spoke jerkily with a strong effort.
Lady Patricia Dinsmore regarded him coldly. She disliked the man
cordially, and made no bones of it. In her heart she had never
forgiven him for wedding her foolish younger sister, the family
beauty, who had died at Doris' birth far away from her kith and kin
in the desolate wilds of New York.
"Good-night, Gerald," she said drily. "Try to get a little sleep."
She turned to the younger man. "Put him to bed, Cord, and cut all
the wires around the Savoy, so he won't call up those wretched
brokers. I think he's trying to gobble the whole English market."
She marked sharply the effect of her shaft.
Grayson turned a shade paler. He clutched Van Ingen's arm.
"Get me out of here!" he whispered hoarsely.
Lady Patricia viewed their departing backs with a fleeting ironical
smile.
"Your father, my dear," she murmured to Doris, "is a very remarkable
man."
Out in the fresh air, Grayson revived amazingly. His feebleness
disappeared as if by magic, and he stepped out briskly. He nodded to
a hansom in the rank and the man drew in to the opening.
"The Savoy," cried Grayson.
He sprang in hastily.
Van Ingen made as if to follow, but Grayson held the apron door
securely.
"No need in the world for you to accompany me, dear boy," he
exclaimed, smiling. "Go back. I feel quite braced already. It was
that devilish stuffiness inside--a momentary seizure. Good-night!"
He waved his hand and sank back. The hansom started forward with a
jerk, and the young man retraced his steps to the theatre, frowning
thoughtfully.
Ten minutes later Grayson thrust up the trap.
"You may drop me here," he called. He descended and paid his fare.
"I'll walk the rest of the way," he remarked casually.
"Bit thickish on foot to-night, sir," offered the driver
respectfully. "Better let me set you down at the hotel." But his
fare was already lost in the enveloping gloom.
Grayson wrapped his muffler closely about his chin, pulled down his
hat to shadow his eyes, and hurried along like a man with a set
destination.
Presently he halted and signalled to a cab, crawling along close to
the curb. Grayson scrutinised it keenly. The horse looked strong.
"Can you take me some distance?" he asked the driver.
"Take ye far's you got the coin!"
Grayson glanced about him furtively. "As far as this?" He stepped
forward and gave an address in a carefully lowered voice.
The driver leaned far down from his high box and peered into his
fare's face.
"Not there!" he muttered.
Grayson held out a sovereign silently.
The driver shook his head.
"It's fair worth a man's life on a night like this."
Two sovereigns gleamed in Grayson's bare outstretched palm.
"I'll double it if you drive fast," he offered.
"All right, sir," answered the man at length, a bit sullenly. "Jump
in." He turned his horse round and drove rapidly toward the river.