THE AMBASSADOR TAKES A HAND
Mr. John Hammond Bierce, American Ambassador and Minister
Plenipotentiary to the Court of Saint James, sat in his spacious
private office, and listened with an air of grave attention to the
story his young protégé poured into his ears. As Van Ingen
concluded, the great man leaned back in his swivel-chair until the
spring creaked, and stifled a yawn behind a white, well-groomed hand.
"My dear boy," he said, "this is a very sad tale, and I am genuinely
sorry for Miss Grayson. Her father appears to have been a rascal.
But," he smiled across at his youthful visitor, "I do not quite see
what the American ambassador has to do with the business. I
understand you consulted me in my official capacity."
"I--I thought perhaps you might wish to take some action----"
"But the man is dead!" exclaimed the ambassador. "Dead and buried."
"That is just the question!" cried Cord eagerly. "Is he dead? For
my part, I suspect he is very much alive and kicking. His suicide
was only a ruse, to mask his plans from the public."
"A very successful one!" retorted the older man drily. "His daughter
identified the body and was present at its burial. It was in all the
papers."
"That is another point!" exclaimed Van Ingen. "Not once was I
permitted to view the body. I was even denied admittance to the
house until three days after the funeral. Throughout the affair the
utmost secrecy was observed."
"That seems natural, under the circumstances."
Van Ingen coloured warmly. "Pardon me, it is not natural, sir, when
you know all the circumstances. I was an intimate of the
family--almost, one might say, in the position of a son." He halted,
and then continued, with a certain dignity: "I have not spoken on the
subject to you before, sir, chiefly because there has been nothing
definite to say. But Miss Grayson is, I hope and pray, sir, my
future wife."
"Ah!" The ambassador surveyed him with a keen but kindly glance.
"I feel bound," he observed thoughtfully, "to make a few remarks,
both as your guardian and as a man who has seen something of the
world. The wife of a rising young diplomat must be, like Cæsar's
wife, above reproach. In short, my dear boy, to marry Miss Grayson
will absolutely ruin your career."
Van Ingen sprang to his feet; his face was livid with anger.
"Then, sir," he cried hotly, "I shall ruin my career, with the
greatest pleasure in life. Miss Grayson--Doris--is worth inestimably
more to me than any paltry success, or material advantage.
Moreover," he continued, composing himself with a strong effort, "I
disagree with you, even upon worldly grounds. Marriage with Doris
will not mar me--it will make me. Without her, I shall be
ineffectual, a nobody to the end of my days. Without her, living has
no aim, no purpose. She justifies existence. I can't explain these
things, sir, even to you. I--I love her!"
"So it would seem!" murmured the ambassador. The sternness had
melted out of his face, leaving a whimsical tenderness.
"Sit down, my dear boy! Other people have been as hot in love as you
before now--and as rashly headstrong." A shade passed over his
features. "Come, let us get down to business. What is it you wish
me to do--administer a love-potion to the young woman? Or restore
the father to life?"
"I want you to investigate the case," Cord replied simply. "Or
rather, give me the power to do so."
"There's Scotland Yard, you know," suggested his friend mildly.
"They could co-operate with us. In fact, that is what I should like
to ask. That you send for Mr. T. B. Smith, who is already in charge
of the business, and tell him that a certain strangeness in the
circumstances has aroused your suspicions, and that you wish to sift
the affair to the bottom. But since you cannot move openly, on
account of your conspicuous position, you desire to join forces
secretly, and to that end you offer a bonus of £500 to clear up the
mystery--to prove, satisfactorily, that Grayson either is, or is not,
dead."
"Five hundred pounds!" mused the ambassador. "You are in love!"
Van Ingen flushed at the thrust. "I am in earnest," he said simply.
The ambassador studied his finger-tips. "I might say," he observed
gravely, "that such a course as you outline--minus the £500--had
already occurred to me. Certain financial--er--adventures in which
Grayson was engaged, with others, have come before my attention, and
it appeared advisable to throw a searchlight upon the somewhat
shadowy obscurity of his death. But my attitude in the investigation
differs slightly from yours." His eyes, suddenly upraised, were
slightly quizzical.
Van Ingen leaned forward breathlessly. He appeared to hang on his
companion's words. "Go on! Go on, sir!" he urged.
The older man continued: "I do not ask, then, as you, where is Mr.
Grayson? I ask, where is Mr. Grayson's money? The gentleman may be
in heaven, or--ah!--elsewhere; presumably the latter. But, in either
case, his money is not with him. Where is it, then? These, and
several other interesting queries, I am waiting to put to Mr. Smith,
who"--he took out his watch--"is due here in precisely ten minutes."
He smiled blandly at the young man, who seized his hand and wrung it
fervently.
"And you will let me work under him, for you?"
"That was my intention before this interview. But, since your
revelation, I doubt its wisdom. Coolness, impartiality of
judgment----"
"Oh, come, sir!" protested Van Ingen, reddening. "I think I've had
enough!"
The ambassador laughed. "Perhaps you have," he conceded.
"Especially as the young lady has not yet struck her colours--eh?"
"Nor shows the slightest signs of doing so," replied Van Ingen
ruefully. "There's another fellow making the running--that foreign
beggar, Poltavo."
The ambassador looked up swiftly. "Not Count Poltavo, distantly
related to the Czar?"
"Related to the devil!" muttered Van Ingen gloomily. "The way he
gets around Doris----"
His guardian looked a little disturbed. "I am sorry for you, my boy.
Poltavo is a strong man. I fancy he will give you quite a fight."
There was a discreet knock at the door, and, at the ambassador's
call, Jamieson entered. He bore a card, which he laid upon the table.
"I told him that you were engaged, Mr. Bierce, but he said he came in
answer to your note."
"Quite right!" replied the ambassador briskly. "Show him in at
once." As the secretary vanished, the older man held up the bit of
engraved pasteboard before the astonished eyes of his young friend.
"Apropos!" he murmured.
Van Ingen reached for his hat. "I must be going," he said hurriedly.
"Not so fast!" The ambassador waved him back to his chair. "Sit
still. The investigation has begun!"
The door opened, and Count Poltavo entered the room.
The ambassador received him cordially. "It was good of you to come
so promptly," he said. "I daresay my note puzzled you."
"I shall not deny it," smiled the count. He bowed politely to Van
Ingen. "As you see, I have come directly on the heels of it, to hear
the question."
"I shall not keep you in suspense, Count Poltavo," replied the
ambassador gravely, "but come at once to the point. Briefly, some
data which lie before me"--he tapped a typewritten report upon the
table--"connect you, somewhat vaguely, with a certain recent event.
For reasons, I propose to investigate that event, and a truthful
statement on your part----"
The count elevated his eyebrows slightly.
"Pardon me! I withdraw the unnecessary adjective."
The count bowed. "And a statement on my part----" he murmured.
"Would be of great value to me at the present moment. And so I have
ventured to write to you, as one gentleman to another, to beg your
assistance."
"And the question?" The count's voice was like velvet. He outlined
a pattern of the carpet with his cane.
The ambassador regarded him somewhat sternly. "How did you spend the
evening of the eighteenth of this month?"
The count's composure did not fail him. Not a muscle of his face
moved under the sharp scrutiny of his questioner, but he hesitated a
perceptible moment.
"The eighteenth?" He wrinkled his brows, in an effort at
recollection. "Pardon me!" He took out a small, black,
leather-bound book. "I sometimes scribble in it my random thoughts,"
he explained. "It may contain something which will aid my memory of
that particular night. Ah!" His face beamed. "Here it is! The
night of the eighteenth, I was at the opera with Lady Dinsmore and
her charming niece. Afterwards, I had a most interesting
conversation with Mr. Van Ingen, in which he confided to me--ah!--his
age." He looked up brightly.
"Is that helpful?"
The ambassador smiled grimly. "And then?"
"Then we parted. I strolled for perhaps ten minutes, and took a
taxi-cab home." He appeared to reflect a moment. "I went directly
to my study, and wrote for some time--several hours, perhaps. Later,
I read." He paused, and then added: "I am not, at any time, an
insatiable sleeper. Four, or five hours at best, are all that I can
manage. That morning it was dawn when I retired, and a faint,
ghostly light was filtering through the shutters. I remember
flinging them wide to look out, and wondering what the new day would
bring to the world. It brought," he concluded quietly, "great grief
to my dear friends."
He rose as he finished. "And now I regret that another
engagement--with Lady Dinsmore, in truth--cuts short my time. I am
glad if I have been able to aid you. And you will let me know if I
can be of further service to you in this lamentable business." He
held out his hand. The ambassador sat still in his chair, smiling.
"One moment, my dear count, and, if Lady Dinsmore complains, refer
her to me."
The count looked at him amiably. "There is still another question?"
he murmured.
"A small part of the same one," the ambassador emended smoothly.
"Where were you in the early part of the evening--_before_ the opera?"
Poltavo laughed softly. "That is true," he admitted. "For the
moment I had completely forgotten. I dined at an unconscionably
early hour with a business associate--I regret that I cannot give you
his name----"
The ambassador glanced down at his report. "Baggin?" he suggested.
The count turned a little white, but he answered composedly. "It is
true. I dined with Mr. Baggin."
"And did not Mr. Grayson call you up over the telephone during
dinner?"
"Some one called Mr. Baggin," responded the count indifferently. "I
remember, because the fish grew cold and had to be sent away."
"And then?"
"Then--we discussed--business. I have a little money lying idle
which I desired Mr. Baggin to invest for me. Unfortunately, the sum
was too small for his purpose."
"And when did you join Mr. Grayson?"
The count stared. "Not at all!" He glanced down at the typewritten
sheets, and an ironical smile touched his lips. "Your report appears
to be--ah!--defective."
"It is," agreed the ambassador. "I had hoped to supplement it by
your information. May I ask you again--Did you not see Mr. Grayson
at some time during the evening of the eighteenth?"
The count shook his head. "I did not," he replied simply. "I affirm
it, upon the honour of a Poltavo."
The ambassador sighed. "Then we are still in the dark," he said
ruefully. "But I thank you for your courtesy. Would you care to
know why I have sought you out, openly, in this extraordinary
fashion?".
"Because you are an extraordinary man," returned the count, with a
deep bow.
The ambassador made a motion of dissent, "Because I am your
well-wisher, Count Poltavo," he said earnestly. "You are, I believe,
a poet, a philosopher, a dreamer--not a common, base money-grabber.
And, therefore, I should deeply regret to find you connected in any
way with this present investigation, and I sincerely trust that in
the future your name will not appear in these--ah!--defective
reports. Frankly, I like you, Count Poltavo." He held out his hand.
"Good-morning. I thank you for your extreme good nature in answering
my questions."
The count appeared moved. Throughout his life, this strange man
remained deeply susceptible to expressions of regard from his
associates, and was always melted, for the moment, by sincere
affection. Indeed, his natural tenderness, offspring of his heart,
and his haughty ambitions, offspring of his head, were ever in deadly
conflict, and his hardness conquered only by the supremest act of his
will.
He grasped the outstretched hand cordially. "You are very kind!" he
said. "And I shall repay you by endeavouring that my name does not
again appear in that reprehensible report." He laid a hand upon the
sheaf of papers. "I should like to see it?" he asked simply.
The ambassador laughed outright. "My dear count," he exclaimed,
"your powers are wasted as a private gentleman! You should be the
ambassador of your imperial kinsman. There, your abilities would
have adequate scope."
The count laughed, and glanced again at the report. "I shall see you
next week at the Duke of Manchester's," he said. "The duchess read
me yesterday her list of names. I was rejoiced to see it included
yours." He bowed again, and withdrew.
The ambassador stared after him somewhat gloomily, took a turn about
the room, and stopped in front of the young man. At sight of his
doleful countenance, his own face brightened.
"Well?" he demanded.
Van Ingen looked sheepish. "I give up!" he replied. "The rascal's
as deep as a well. But he seemed to me to be telling the truth."
"He was!" agreed the ambassador promptly. "He is a great man--and a
dangerous one. He has an unquenchable spirit."
He took out his watch. "Smith has failed us," he remarked. "But it
is no matter. He sent in this morning his detailed report. I will
turn that over to you, my boy, since you have volunteered your
services in this business. Read it with care--it contains some
remarkable statements--and return it to Mr. Smith, in person. Why
not drop around to his chambers this evening and see what has
detained him? Wait! I'll give you a line to him."
He scribbled a note hastily, and thrust it and the report into the
young man's hands. "And now, clear out!" He waved his hands
laughingly. "Don't return until you can explain--everything! Off
with you!"
On the way out, Cord paused to examine his mail. One letter was from
Doris. He broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly. It
contained but a single sentence.
"Can you come to me at nine o'clock?
"DORIS."
Despite his joy at receiving such a token of friendship, his face
clouded. Nine o'clock! It was an awkward hour. He had planned to
spend the entire evening with the detective.
He determined to read the report, dine with Smith, if he could catch
him, and go on later to Lady Dinsmore's. His spirits rose with a
bound at the prospect.
But he was destined to disappointment. Mr. Smith was not to be found
at his chambers, nor at Scotland Yard, nor in any of his accustomed
haunts. Nor had he left any instructions with his man. At five
o'clock, after repeated attempts, Cord gave up the project, somewhat
sulkily, and sent two messages. He would stay for a short half-hour
with Doris, and then drive around to the apartment of the detective,
trusting that he might have returned.
That evening, at nine o'clock, he was ushered into Lady Dinsmore's
drawing-room by a deferential footman, who went to announce his
presence. Cord moved about restlessly. His forehead throbbed madly
with overwrought nerves, for, since the reading of the report, he had
felt wildly excited. It was safely folded away in an inner pocket,
together with a telegram from T. B. Smith, bearing the single word,
"Delighted!"
When at length Doris appeared, Cord was struck with the pallid beauty
of the girl. Her animation and glow had departed, and her red lips,
usually a Cupid's-bow of laughter, drooped pitifully at the corners.
Her high-necked gown of deepest black gave her the look of a
sorrowing nun. Nor did her manner reassure him; it was vague and
remote, and Cord, who had meant to pour out his heart in sympathy,
found himself chilled, and stammering forth absurd inanities.
The half-hour passed on leaden foot. Doris explained, in a listless
voice, that she was leaving soon, with her aunt, for the Continent,
to travel indefinitely. She had meant to go away, quietly, without a
word, but she found that she wished to see him once more--she
faltered piteously.
Cord stood up abruptly. The interview had suddenly become
unendurable to him.
"I shall see you again to-morrow!" he assured her.
She shook her head sadly. "This is the end, dear Cord. Our paths
lie apart in the future. Yours is a fair, shining one, with success
just ahead. Mine----" She gave a gesture of despair. "Good-bye!"
Cord took both her hands in his. "Good-night! I shall come again in
the morning." He felt an almost overmastering desire to take her
into his arms, to whisper into her ear the secret of the report.
She walked with him to the outer door and let him out into the cool
darkness of the night. "Good-bye!" she said again. She seemed
vaguely uneasy, and bent forward, peering about her. "Is that your
taxi-cab?" she asked sharply. Cord reassured her.
"I--I have a presentiment that something is going to happen." She
spoke in a low voice, full of emotion. "You will be careful--for my
sake?"
Cord laughed, with a commingling of the joy and tender pride which a
man feels toward the anxiety of the one woman in the world.
"I will be most careful," he promised, "and I will report my welfare
to you in the morning!"
The door closed between them, and he went down the steps, whistling
cheerfully.
The taxi-cab drew alongside. He gave the address to the driver, and
sprang in, triumphant, hopeful. In front of the house of the
detective, he descended and halted a moment upon the pavement,
searching in an inner pocket for change.
Something rushed upon him from behind; he swerved, instinctively, and
received a stinging blow across the head and neck. As he sank
helplessly to his knees, blinded by pain, but still conscious, a hand
from behind inserted itself into his pocket. Cord resisted with all
his strength. "Smith!" he shouted. Something heavy descended upon
his head. There was a sudden blaze of falling stars all about
him,--and then blackness, oblivion.
When he regained consciousness, he was lying upon a couch, and Smith
was bending over him.
"That was a narrow squeak, my friend!" he said cheerfully. "You may
thank your lucky stars that you missed the full force of that first
blow."
Van Ingen blinked feebly. There was still a horrid buzzing in his
ears, and Smith's voice sounded as from a great distance. The room
swam in great circles around him.
"The report?" he asked faintly.
"They got it!" admitted Smith, who did not seem deeply downcast at
its loss. "But they didn't get you, my boy! So that I think we may
regard their job as a failure."