A STRANGER COMES TO BURGOS
He was a slender, distinguished man, and dressed in black, which is
the colour of Spain.
Seeing him, on windy days, when bleak, icy airstreams poured down
from the circling Sierras, and made life in Madrid insupportable, one
might have marked him down as a Spaniard. His black felt hat and his
velvet-lined _cappa_ with its high collar would show him to be such
from a distance, while nearer at hand his olive complexion, his
delicately aquiline nose, and slightly upturned black moustache,
would confirm the distant impression.
He had come to Burgos from Madrid by an express, and had travelled
all night, and yet he was the trimmest and most alert of the crowd
which thronged the Calle de Vitoria, a crowd made up of peasants,
tourists, and soldiers.
He made a slow progress, for the crowd grew thicker in the vicinity
of the Casa del Cordon, where the loyal country-folk waited patiently
for a glimpse of their young king.
The stranger stood for a little while looking up at the
expressionless windows of the Casa, innocent of curtain, but
strangely clean. He speculated on the value of life--of royal life.
"If I were to kill the king," he mused, "Europe would dissolve into
one big shudder. If, being dead, I came forward offering to restore
him to life for fifty million francs the money would be instantly
forthcoming on the proof of my ability. Yet were I to go now to the
king's minister saying--'It is easy for me to kill the king, but if
you will give me the money you would spend on his obsequies, I will
stay my hand,' I should be kicked out, arrested, and possibly
confined as a lunatic."
He nodded his head slowly, and as he turned away he took a little
note-book from his pocket, and inscribed--"The greatest of miracles
is self-restraint." Then he rolled a cigarette and walked slowly
back to the Café Suizo in the Espolon.
A clean-shaven priest, with a thin, intellectual face, was stirring
his coffee at one of the tables, and since this was the least
occupied the stranger made for it. He raised his hat to the priest
and sat down.
"I apologise for intruding myself, father," he said, "but the other
tables----"
The priest smiled and raised a protesting hand.
"The table is at your disposition, my son," he said.
He was about the same age as the stranger, but he spoke with the
assurance of years. His voice was modulated, his accent refined, his
presence that of a gentleman.
"A Jesuit," thought the stranger, and regarded him with politely
veiled curiosity. Jesuits had a fascination for him. They were
clever, and they were good; but principally they were a mysterious
force that rode triumphant over the prejudice of the world and the
hatred in the Church.
"If I were not an adventurer," he said aloud, and with an air of
simplicity, "I should be a Jesuit."
The priest smiled again, looking at him with calm interest.
"My son," he said, "if I were not a Jesuit priest, I should be
suspicious of your well-simulated frankness."
Here would have come a deadlock to a man of lesser parts than the
stranger, but he was a very adaptable man. None the less, he was
surprised into a laugh which showed his white teeth.
"In Spain," he said, "no gambit to conversation is known. I might
have spoken of the weather, of the crowd, of the king--I chose to
voice my faults."
The priest shook his head, still smiling.
"It is of no importance," he said quietly; "you are a Russian, of
course?"
The stranger stared at him blankly. These Jesuits--strange stories
had been told about them. A body with a secret organisation, spread
over the world--it had been said that they were hand-in-hand with the
police----
"I knew you were a Russian; I lived for some time in St. Petersburg.
Besides, you are only Spanish to your feet," the Jesuit looked down
at the stranger's boots,--"they are not Spanish; they are much too
short."
The stranger laughed again. After all, this was a confirmation of
his views of Jesuits.
"You, my father," he accused in his turn, "are a teacher; a professor
at the College of Madrid: a professor of languages." He stopped and
looked up to the awning that spread above him, seeking inspiration.
"A professor of Greek," he said slowly.
"Arabic," corrected the other; "but that deduction isn't clever,
because the Jesuits at Madrid are all engaged in scholastic work."
"But I knew you came from Madrid."
"Because we both came by the same train," said the calm priest, "and
for the same purpose."
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"For what purpose, father?" he asked.
"To witness the eclipse," said the priest.
A few minutes later the stranger watched the black-robed figure with
the broad-rimmed hat disappearing in the crowd with a little feeling
of irritation.
He drank the remainder of his _café en tasse_, paid the waiter, and
stepping out into the stream, was swept up the hill to where a number
of English people were gathered, with one eye upon their watches and
another upon the livid shadow that lay upon the western sky.
He found a place on the slope of the hill tolerably clear of
sightseers, and spread a handkerchief carefully on the bare baked
earth and sat down. He had invested a penny in a strip of smoked
glass, and through this he peered critically at the sun. The hour of
contact was at hand, and he could see the thin rim of the obstruction
cover the edge of the glaring ball.
"Say, this will do; it's not so crowded."
The stranger buried his chin in the high collar of his _cappa_,
pulled down his felt hat over his eyes, and from beneath its brim
gazed eagerly at the newcomers.
One was short and stout and breathed stertorously, having recently
climbed the hill. His face was a heavy oval, with deep creases
running from nostril to jaw. The other, the speaker, was a tall,
lean man, with an eagle cast of countenance. He wore, somewhat
carelessly, a brown overcoat and a derby. Both were unmistakably
American tourists, who had stopped off at Burgos to see the eclipse.
"Phew!" exclaimed the fat man. "I don't know which was worse, the
climb or the crowd. I hate crowds," he grumbled. "You lose things."
"Have you lost anything?" asked the other. His own hand went
unconsciously to his breast pocket. The stranger saw this out of the
corner of his eye--inside breast pocket on the left, he noted.
"You shouldn't carry valuables in a place like this," the man
continued, "that is to say, not money."
"How about letters, eh, Baggin? Letters--and plans? They are
sometimes worth money to the right party."
His companion frowned. "Nothing that I carry is worth money," he
returned shortly. "I flatter myself that not a man in the world, no,
not even you, Grayson," there was a slight sneer in his voice, "could
make head or tail of my memoranda. And yet, there it is, the entire
proposition, written down, in black and white. But it's all in code,
and I carry the code in my head."
"I'm sincerely glad to hear it," replied the other. He looked about
him nervously. "I--have a feeling that we oughtn't to have come
here."
"You make me tired," said Baggin wearily.
"We oughtn't be seen together," persisted the other. "All sorts of
people are here. Men from the city, perhaps. Suppose I should be
recognised--my picture was in all the papers."
"Don't be a fool," said Baggin roughly. "And for Heaven's sake,
don't peer around in that silly fashion. Let me give you an epigram
of Poltavo's. 'It is the observer who is always observed.' Rather
neat, eh?"
"I wish he were in with us on this thing."
"I don't," retorted Baggin. "So that's settled. He's done his work,
and that's the end of him."
"I doubt it," returned the other thoughtfully. "And, frankly, if the
matter comes up again, I shall vote to admit him."
"Well, wait till it does come up," growled Baggin. "And don't talk
shop in a crowd like this. Do you know what Poltavo says? 'Men
babble away their secrets, and whisper away their lives.'"
There was a long pause, and the stranger knew that one of the
Americans was making dumb-show signals of warning. They were nodding
at him, he felt sure, so he bowed and asked politely:
"At what hour is the eclipse?"
"No savvy," said the fat man, "no hablo Espagnol."
The stranger shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to the
contemplation of the plain below.
"He doesn't speak English," said the fat man, "none of these beggars
do."
His friend made no reply, but after a silence of a few minutes he
said quietly and in English:
"Look at that balloon."
But the stranger was not to be trapped by a simple trick like that,
and continued his stolid regard of the landscape; besides he had seen
the balloons parked on the outskirts of the town, and knew that
intrepid scientists would make the ascent to gather data.
He took another look at the sun. The disc was half-way across its
surface, and the west was grey and blue, and the little clouds that
flecked the sky were iridescent. Crowds still poured up the hill,
and the slope was now covered with people. He had to stand up, and
in doing so, he found himself side by side with the fat man.
A strange light was coming to the world; there were triple shadows on
the ground, and the stout man shifted uneasily.
"Don't like this, Baggin," he said fretfully, "it's hateful--never
did like these wonders of the sky, they make me nervous. It's awful.
Look out there, out west behind you. It's black, black--it's like
the end of the world!"
"Cut it out!" said his unimaginative companion.
Then of a sudden the black shadow in the west leaped across the sky,
and the world went grey-black. Where the sun had been was a hoop of
fire, a bubbling, boiling circle of golden light, and the circling
horizon was a dado of bright yellow. It was as though the sun had
set at its zenith, and the sunset glows were shown, east, west,
north, and south.
"My God, this is awful!"
The stout man covered his face with one hand and clung tightly with
the other to Baggin. He was oblivious to everything, save a gripping
fear of the unknown that clawed at his heart.
Baggin himself paled, and set his jaw grimly. For the moment he was
blind and deaf to the hustling, murmuring crowd about him; he only
knew that he stood in the darkness at high noon, and that something
was happening which he could not compress within the limits of his
understanding.
Three minutes the eclipse lasted; then, as suddenly as it began, it
ended.
A blazing, blinding wave of light flooded the world, and the stars
that had studded the sky went out.
"Yes--yes, I know I'm a fool." Grayson's face was bathed in
perspiration. "It's--it's my temperament. But never again! It's an
experience."
He shook his head, as his trembling legs carried him down the
hillside.
"You're all right," said Baggin reassuringly. "I'll admit that it
was a bit spooky." He tapped his pocket mechanically, and stopped
dead.
"Gone!" he gasped, and dived into his pocket. "My memorandum book!"
Suddenly he grasped his companion and shook him savagely.
"It was you, damn you! I felt you pawing over me in the dark."
Grayson looked at him good-naturedly. "Don't be an ass, Baggin," he
said. "What would I do with your code when I had it? God knows I
don't want the responsibility of this business!"
Baggin released him sullenly. "I--I beg pardon, Grayson. But I did
feel hands upon me in the darkness, and thought at the time it was
you. I daresay it was that accursed Spaniard."
He looked about him eagerly. The crowd was dispersing in all
directions. The stranger was not to be seen.
"Thank Heaven, the thing was in cipher. He won't be able to make
anything of it, anyway. He probably thought it was a fat wallet full
of money, and will be desperately disappointed." He laughed
mirthlessly. Plainly he was greatly disturbed.
Grayson observed him with a malicious satisfaction. "You shouldn't
carry valuables around in a place like this," he remarked gravely.
The two men descended the hill and made their way to their hotel.
The stranger went into the cathedral, and took from the pocket of his
mantle a small memorandum book.
"'Men babble away their secrets, and whisper away their lives,'" he
murmured with a smile. "Never was my friend Baggin more apropos."
He set to work upon the cipher. It was very quiet in the cathedral.
* * * * * * *
That evening, at ten o'clock, the trim serving-maid tapped lightly at
the sitting-room door of the two American gentlemen, and tendered
Baggin, who answered it, a card.
"Tell him to come up," he said in a surly voice. He flipped the bit
of pasteboard across to his friend. "Poltavo! What the devil is he
doing in this part of the world? No good, I'll be bound."
A sudden idea shot across his mind and struck him pale. He stood in
the middle of the room, his head down, his brows drawn blackly
together. A red light flickered in his eyes.
Grayson, lounging easily in a deep leather chair, regarded him with
something of the contempt the lazy man always entertains for the
active one. The beginning of a secret dislike formed vaguely in his
brain. His thoughts flew to Poltavo, a bright contrast. "I wish he
would bring me news of Doris," he muttered. A wistful look crept
into his face.
There was a discreet double knock at the door, it fell open, and
Count Poltavo was revealed framed picturesquely in the archway.
He wore a black felt hat and a velvet-lined _cappa_ which fell about
him in long graceful folds. A small dark moustache adorned his upper
lip. He removed it, and the hat, gravely, and stood bare-headed
before them, a slender, distinguished figure.
"Good-evening, gentlemen."
He spoke in a soft, well-modulated voice, which held a hint of
laughter. "Mr. Baggin, permit me to restore something of yours which
I--er--found upon the hill." He held out the memorandum book,
smiling.
Baggin sprang at him with an oath.
[Illustration: Baggin sprang at him with an oath]
The count, still smiling, flung out his other hand, with a motion of
defence, and the candlelight gleamed brightly upon a small dagger of
Spanish workmanship. "'Ware!" he cried softly. "That point, I
fancy, is sharp."
Baggin fell back a pace, his face twitching with rage.
"You would knife me, an unarmed man!" he cried furiously. "You low
foreign cur!"
The count took a quick step toward him. His eyes sparkled. "I must
ask you to retract that," he said. There was a dangerous note in his
tones like the thin edge of a blade.
Grayson started to his feet. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" he cried.
"Are you gone stark mad, to quarrel over such a trifle? Baggin, stop
glaring like a caged beast. Sit down. The count has returned your
book, which doubtless you dropped upon the hill. And did you not
boast that its contents were undecipherable?"
Baggin took the book. "I may have been over-hasty," he acknowledged
grudgingly, suspicion still in his eye. "But your disguise----"
"Was necessary, my friend, and I accept your apology. Say nothing
more of it." The count unfastened the clasp at his throat, stuck the
dagger into the panel of the door, and hung his hat and mantle upon
it. The moustache he held up between thumb and forefinger with a
grimace.
"How do you like me with mustachios, Mr. Grayson? They fell off
three times to-day."
The man whom most of London supposed to be dead laughed heartily.
"They change the entire cast of your countenance," he remarked
candidly. "They make you look like a rascal."
"That is true," admitted the count. "I have observe' the same. They
bring out the evil streak in my nature. I used to wear them, five
years ago, in London," he continued pensively, "and then I shaved
for--ah--æsthetic reasons. Mr. T. B. Smith does not fancy
mustachios. He thought they gave me the look of a nihilist--or
perhaps a Russian spy. Apropos," he nodded to Grayson, "he has
charge of your case. He is a clever man, my friend." He sighed
gently.
Grayson looked at him sombrely. "I wish I were out of this job," he
muttered, "and back in America with Doris. You saw her?" he demanded
eagerly.
The count nodded, with a significant glance toward Baggin.
The latter caught the look, and suspicion flamed again in his eye.
"May I ask you a plain question?" he said harshly.
"Surely!"
"How much of this business do you know?"
The count permitted himself a smile. "Since this afternoon," he
answered softly, "I know--all."
Baggin's face grew black with rage. "Thief! I knew it!" He
stuttered in the intensity of his passion.
The count surveyed him dispassionately. "Wrath in, reason out," he
murmured.
Grayson intervened again. "For my part," he declared, "I am heartily
glad of it. Poltavo is one of us now, and can tell us what he thinks
of the scheme. I have always wished for his opinion."
Baggin rose abruptly, and strode about the room. Plainly the man was
in a great, almost uncontrollable passion. The veins on his temples
stood out in knots, and his hands clenched and unclenched
spasmodically. Presently he turned, mastering himself with a strong
effort, and held out his hand. "I agree," he said in a constrained
voice. "You are one of us, count." The two shook hands and resumed
their chairs.
"And now," said Grayson, "tell us what you think of the scheme?"
The count hesitated for a minute. "Good," he said at length, "and
bad! Admirable in the general plan, but absurd in some of the
details."
"The general plan was mine," said Baggin gruffly.
"And the absurd details were probably mine," admitted Grayson with
cheerfulness.
"May I give you some suggestions?" asked the count politely.
"Go ahead!" returned Baggin.
"This afternoon--after I had deciphered your notes--it took me
precisely two hours by the cathedral chimes to work out the key--I
ventured to revise them, and also to devise a different plan of
retirement for the committee. You would care to know it?" He looked
deferentially at Baggin, whose bent brows relaxed.
"Draw up your chair to the table," he said in reply. "We'll overhaul
the entire proposition. There will be difficulties---- If you could
invest an equal share of money----"
"I thought of that," answered the count simply. "And I fancy I
can--how you say--raise the required amount. May I speak for a
moment to Mr. Grayson--on a very personal matter?"
He drew the older man aside, and conversed with him briefly, in low
tones.
Surprise, incredulity, displeasure chased each other across Grayson's
countenance in rapid succession. "Very well," he said finally,
somewhat brusquely. "You have my consent--until I see Doris."
They returned to the table. "I will be security for Count Poltavo,"
he declared to Baggin, "for half-a-million pounds."