"And you think mischief is brewing, eh?"
The speaker was Maurice Farquhar. The man he addressed was Andres
Moreno, the black-browed Spaniard who had dined with him on the previous
evening at the restaurant where they had met Guy Rossett and his party.
Maurice, a member of the junior bar, with a daily increasing practice,
rented a charming suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of
the Temple. Certainly, this suite was on the top floor, and it was a
stiff climb up those stairs. But Maurice was young and healthy, and the
ascent of those few steep stairs did not trouble him in the least.
Apart from his own special legal business, which absorbed his best
faculties, he was a man of many interests. During the lean years, when
he had waited for briefs, he had supplemented his modest patrimony by
journalism. He became a somewhat well-known figure in Fleet Street,
specialising more or less upon foreign politics.
Then, when the briefs began to flow in, he had gradually dropped
journalism. Now and again, at the earnest request of a persistent
editor, he would write an article or a letter on some burning question,
in which he could display his particular knowledge of affairs.
In those old journalistic days, happy, careless days, when a dinner at
the old "Cheshire Cheese" was accounted something of a luxury, when he
never entered the portals of the Ritz or Carlton, save as the guest of
some rich friend or relation, he had struck up a great comradeship with
Andres Moreno, son of a Spanish father and an English mother, an adroit
and clever journalist, who could turn his hand to anything.
Nothing came amiss to Moreno; he was the handy man of journalism. He
could write a most flamboyant description of a fashionable bazaar. He
could, in a sufficiently well-paid article, penetrate the subtle schemes
of European monarchs and statesmen.
His knowledge of London and every other foreign capital was
illuminating. He knew every prominent detective, he enjoyed the
acquaintance of not a few members of the criminal classes. He was
hail-fellow-well-met with staunch monarchists and avowed anarchists.
But it was always difficult with this man, who had friends in so many
camps, to discover what were his real opinions.
Maurice who, perhaps, knew him better than anybody, on the mental side,
always declared that he had no fixed opinions.
"When you are with the good old-fashioned Tory," he had said once to him
laughingly, "you are all for King and Church and State and good
Government. When you are with the anarchist, your sympathies go with
the poor devils who have got nothing, and want to blow up everybody, in
the hopes of getting a bit out of the wreck."
And Moreno, in the same jocular spirit, had admitted there was a certain
element of truth in the description.
"I am so infernally sympathetic, you know, Farquhar. I am like a straw
blown by the wind. Any man who can talk to me earnestly for five
minutes makes me see eye to eye with him. When I have left him, when
the magnetism of his presence is removed, the cold fit succeeds, and I
see with the eye of Andres Moreno. On the whole, I think I may say I am
on the side of law and order."
And Farquhar had replied in the same half-jocular vein. "Better stick
on that side, old man. Otherwise they will end by taking from you even
that little which you have."
Since those days of early friendship, the two men had prospered
exceedingly. Moreno was a very highly paid journalist. Farquhar was
one of the rising members of the junior bar.
The young barrister repeated his question.
"And you think mischief is brewing, eh?" Moreno raised himself from
what appeared to be a deep reverie. It was a peculiarity of the man
that suddenly he would relapse into deep meditation, and for the moment
seem oblivious of what was going on around him. Then, in a flash, his
keen intellect would assert itself, and he would pick up, in a very easy
fashion the dropped threads of the previous conversation.
"Very serious mischief, old man," he said, in his deep, rather husky
tones. He spoke English perfectly, by the way, without the slightest
trace of foreign accent. As a matter of fact, he had been born and bred
in the country of his mother.
"Is it a great secret?" questioned Farquhar.
Moreno looked at him kindly. He was very greatly attached to this quiet
Englishman, who had taken him by the hand in those early days when some
of the brethren of the pen had regarded him as an outsider, and shown
their dislike very plainly.
"It is to everybody else, but not to you, my old and tried friend. I
can trust you not to suck another man's brains. Besides, you are out of
the business now. Yes, there are great things going on, in Madrid,
Barcelona and Seville. There are also great things going on in a little
corner in London, I can assure you."
Farquhar lifted his eyebrows, but he made no comment. Moreno would talk
when it pleased him.
The Spaniard laughed softly, and leaned back in his chair. He was a man
of deep and subtle humour, and was continually smiling at the ironies
and incongruities of life.
"I am going to astonish you now, my good Maurice. To-morrow night I am
going to be inducted as a member of an anarchist society in Soho."
Farquhar, disturbed in his well-balanced mind, gave a violent start.
"Are you mad, Andres? Have you any idea of what you will commit
yourself to?"
Moreno shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently.
"I shall know, and size it all up the day after to-morrow; I am a
soldier of fortune, my friend. I am an enterprising journalist--
anything for sensation, anything for `copy.' I shall put my anarchist
friends to good use."
"And they will kill you while you are doing it, or after you have done
it," said Farquhar grimly.
"You do not pay a very high compliment to my intelligence, my friend. I
think I may say that I am clever. Anarchists are very stupid people.
They will suspect each other long before they suspect Andres Moreno."
He was a small man, but he looked quite important as he made this boast.
Whatever his failings, a want of confidence in himself was not one of
them. But Farquhar still appeared dubious.
"I was a little doubtful till last night when I saw your friends at the
restaurant," went on Moreno, in his slightly husky voice. "You did not
introduce me, there was no opportunity for that. I recognised one of
them, Guy Rossett, who, I take it, is the fiance of that charming young
lady who, you say, is your cousin."
Farquhar frowned a little. How quick these foreigners were to guess
things.
"I have no idea," he said stiffly. "General Clandon is my uncle, and I
have been on very intimate terms with him and his family since I was a
child. If there were any engagement, I think I should have been
informed."
Moreno noticed the frown, the stiffness in the tone. He went on
smoothly.
"I may be jumping at conclusions rather too hastily, but I will tell you
how I arrived at them. I happen to know that Guy Rossett is appointed
to the Embassy at Madrid. With his sister, he dines with this charming
girl and a man, obviously her father. It looks to me like a farewell
dinner, and at a restaurant which is excellent, but certainly not
fashionable. They wanted to escape observation, otherwise a man in
Rossett's position, and he was certainly the host, would have been at
the Ritz."
"And what do you deduce from these profound observations, worthy of
Sherlock Holmes himself?" asked Farquhar a little testily.
Moreno answered slowly. He could see that his friend was troubled, but
he had gone too far to recede.
"I should say there was a secret understanding between the young people,
approved of by the girl's father, and the man's sister. Probably they
are still waiting for the Earl's consent to an open engagement."
Farquhar, to hide his agitation, swallowed his whiskey and soda in one
draught, and chewed viciously at the end of his cigar.
"You may be right," he said, speaking with forced calm. "Well, let us
get back to your anarchists. What has made you join them?"
Moreno reflected a moment before he spoke.
"I happen to know that young Rossett was in possession of some very
exclusive information about this particular plot. That is one of the
reasons why he has been sent to Spain."
"And where do you come in?" questioned Farquhar.
Moreno smiled. "It is as much curiosity as anything. The anarchists
know that Rossett knows a good deal about them. Now, I want to find out
how they are going to act when Rossett finds himself in Madrid, you
see."
"And you'll find it out before you are many hours older, cunning old
devil that you are," said Farquhar, with an appreciative smile. "Well,
let me know how you get on. Isobel Clandon is my cousin, and I can't
help feeling interested in all this, especially if what you suggest
about her and Rossett is true."
When Moreno had left, the ambitious young barrister sat thinking deeply.
He had loved his cousin for years, not perhaps with any great
overmastering passion, but with that steady affection which might be
expected from a man of his grave and cautious temperament.
He was prepared to speak when the time was ripe, when his prospects and
circumstances permitted him to offer Isobel a proper home. Moreno's
words troubled him, and he had an uneasy suspicion that the Spaniard,
with his swift intelligence, had accurately gauged the situation. The
fruit which might have been his for the mere stretching out of the
hand--had it been plucked by somebody more impetuous, more energetic
than himself?
This he must learn as soon as possible. Moreno's words had suddenly
roused him to action. He was now blaming in his mind, those very traits
on which he had been wont to pride himself, his scrupulousness, his
excessive caution.
He had always thought that Isobel liked him, that she would not be
reluctant to entertain his advances, when he had judged the time was
right to make them.
And, of course, he had been a fool. He had not looked at the position
from the girl's point of view. A girl, however much she may be inclined
towards a man, is not disposed to wait indefinitely while he is making
up his mind, nicely balancing pros and cons.
He had never thought of anybody else for his wife. But he had reckoned
too surely on the fact that she was waiting quietly in that little home
at Eastbourne, till he chose to make love to her.
He wired to General Clandon the next morning, explaining that he had a
couple of days' leisure; might he run down? There came back the cordial
reply, "Come at once. Delighted."
Truth to tell, the General was both proud and fond of his nephew, the
son of his favourite sister. He might have thought at times that the
young man was a little too grave and serious for his years, he had
always seemed singularly free from the follies of youth. But he had the
greatest respect for his sterling qualities, for his high principles and
character.
Father and daughter met him at the station. Isobel liked him very much.
There was a time when liking might have been converted into a warmer
feeling. But, speaking in vulgar parlance, Maurice had failed through
his over-scrupulousness, his too nice weighing of possibilities and
probabilities, to strike while the iron was hot.
And then Guy Rossett, ardent, impetuous, the beau ideal of a lover, had
carried her off her feet, and her cousin was hardly a memory, so much
did she live in the radiance of the present.
He had a most dainty dinner. Isobel was a wonderful housekeeper, and
could accomplish wonders on a very limited income. Maurice, his desire
sharpened by his forebodings, thought what a perfect wife she would
make, uniting the decorative with the practical.
After dinner she left the men alone to their wine and cigars. Farquhar
was not long in coming to the point. It was typical of his rather staid
and old-fashioned way of regarding things that, even in the delicate
matter of love, the correct method was to approach the parent first.
"I wonder, uncle, if you have ever thought of me in the light of a
future son-in-law?"
The General looked a little embarrassed. Not very long ago, that aspect
of his nephew had presented itself to him, and the prospect was not
unpleasing. He had a shrewd notion that Maurice was very attached to
his pretty cousin, and was marking time for some quite honourable and
justifiable reasons.
Of Isobel he was not at all sure. Maurice had every good quality from a
man's point of view, but he was not quite the stuff out of which
romantic and compelling lovers are made. And her father was certain
that Isobel was full of romance.
The General answered slowly, and with a caution worthy of Maurice
himself. "I might have thought about it some time ago, my boy. I
fancied then that you were greatly attached. Let me see, it was some
three or four years ago that I formed that opinion, I think."
"Yes," said Maurice, speaking with a quiet bitterness. "I suppose it
was about then that I showed my feelings, as far as I am capable of
showing them, plainly. But there were reasons why I did not speak then,
reasons that I still think good ones."
"I am sure of that, my dear boy," said the uncle kindly. He guessed now
the reason of this visit, that sudden telegram.
"At that time I was making headway, it is true, but my position was by
no means assured. You know the smallness of my patrimony, and what I
earned outside was inconsiderable. I did not feel justified in asking a
girl to wait, on the chance of prospects that might never come to
fruition."
"Quite right, quite honourable!" murmured the poor General, dreading the
inevitable end of this discourse. Maurice was stating the case, rather
as if he were addressing a jury, but there was no doubt he meant
business. Even a man of his cautious temperament could now safely allow
himself the luxury of matrimony, that was evident from this preamble.
"It has always been my one thought to marry Isobel, assuming that she
would have me, the moment I was in a position to take a wife. That
moment has now arrived; I have no fears of the future. The question
arises, am I too late?"
The General was terribly embarrassed by this direct question. He was a
most straightforward man, he loathed subterfuge.
But what was he to do? The engagement of his daughter to Guy Rossett
was a secret one. He was, in honour bound, to give neither of them
away.