Fischer, on leaving his unsuccessful dinner party, drove direct to the
residence of Mr. Max H. Bookam, in Fifth Avenue. The butler who
admitted him looked a little blank at his inquiry.
"Mr. Bookam was expected home yesterday, sir," he announced. "He has
not arrived, however."
"Has there been any telegram from him?--any news as to the cause of his
non-return?" Fischer persisted.
"I believe that Mr. Kaye, his secretary, has some information, sir,"
the man admitted. "Perhaps you would like to see him."
Fischer did not hesitate, and was conducted at once to the study in
which Mr. Bookam was wont to indulge in various nefarious Stock
Exchange adventures. The room was occupied on this occasion by a
dejected-looking young man, with pasty face and gold spectacles. The
apartment, as Fischer was quick to notice, showed signs of a strange
disorder.
"Where's Mr. Bookam?" he asked quickly.
The young man walked to the door, shook it to be sure that it was
closed, and came back again. His tone was ominous, almost dramatic.
"In the State Prison at----, sir," he announced.
"What for?" Fischer demanded, breathing a little thickly.
"I have no certain information," the secretary replied, with a
noncommittal air. "All I know is that I had a long-distance telephone
to burn certain documents, but before I could do so the room and the
house were searched by New York detectives, whose warrant it was
useless to resist."
"But what's the charge against Mr. Bookam?"
"It's something to do with the disasters in----," the young man
confided. "The Governor of the State, who is Mr. Bookam's cousin, is in
the same trouble.... Better sit down a moment, sir. You're looking
white."
Mr. Fischer threw himself into an easy-chair. He felt like a man who
has built a mighty piece of machinery, has set it swinging through
space, and watches now its imminent collapse; watches some tiny but
ghastly flaw, pregnant with disaster, growing wider and wider before
his eyes.
"What papers did the police take away with them?" he asked.
"There wasn't very much for them," the secretary replied. "There was a
list of the names of the proposed organisation which, owing to your
very wise intervention, was never formed. There was a list of factories
throughout the United States in which munitions are being made, with a
black mark against those holding the most important contracts. And
there was a letter from Governor Roughton."
"Mr. Bookam hasn't drawn any cheques lately for large amounts?" Fischer
inquired eagerly.
"There are three in his private cheque-book, sir, the counterfoils of
which are not filled in," was the somewhat dreary admission.
Fischer groaned as he received the news.
"Have you any idea about those cheques?" he demanded.
"I am afraid," the other acknowledged, "that Mr. Bookam was not very
discreet. I reminded him of your advice--that the money should be
passed through Sullivan--but he didn't seem to think it worth while."
"Look here, let me know the worst at once," Fischer insisted. "Do you
believe that any one of those cheques was made payable to any of the
men who are under arrest?"
"I am afraid," the secretary declared sadly, "that the proceeds of one
were found on the person of Ed. Swindles, intact."
Fischer sat for a moment with his head buried in his hands. "That any
man could have been such a fool. An organisation would have been a
thousand times safer. Max Bookam was only a very worthy and industrious
clothing manufacturer, with an intense love for the Fatherland and a
great veneration for all her institutions. What he had done, he had
done whole-heartedly but foolishly. He was a man who should never have
been trusted for a moment in the game. After all, the pawns count...."
Fischer took his leave and reached his hotel a little before midnight.
Already he had begun to look over his shoulder in the street. He found
his rooms empty with a sense of relief, marred by one little
disappointment. Nikasti was to have been there to bid him farewell--
Nikasti on his way back to Japan. He ascertained from the office of the
hotel that there had been no telephone message or caller. Then he
turned to his correspondence, some presentiment already clutching at
his strained nerves. There was a letter in a large envelope, near the
bottom of the pile, addressed to him in Nikasti's fine handwriting. He
tore open the envelope, and slow horror seized him as he realised its
contents. A long photograph unrolled itself before his eyes. The first
few words brought confusion and horror to his sense. His brain reeled.
This was defeat, indeed! It was a photograph of that other autograph
letter. The one which he had given to Nikasti to carry to Japan lay--
gross sacrilege!--about him in small pieces. There was no other line,
no message, nothing but this damning proof of his duplicity.
A kind of mental torture seized him. He fought like a caged man for
some way out. Every sort of explanation occurred to him only to be
rejected, every sort of subterfuge, only to be cast aside with a kind
of ghastly contempt. He felt suddenly stripped bare. His tongue could
serve him no more. He snatched at the telephone receiver and rang up
the number for which he searched eagerly through the book.
"Is that the office of the American Steamship Company?" he asked.
"Yes."
"What time will the _New York_ sail?"
"In three-quarters of an hour. Who's speaking?"
"Mr. Oscar Fischer. Keep anything you have for me."
He threw down the receiver for fear of a refusal, packed a few things
feverishly in a dressing bag, dashed the rest of his correspondence
into his pocket, and with the bag in one hand, and an overcoat over the
other arm, he hastened out into the street. He was obliged at first to
board a street car. Afterwards he found a taxicab, and drove under the
great wooden shed as the last siren was blowing. He hurried up the
gangway, a grim, remorseful figure, a sense of defeat gnawing at his
heart, a bitter, haunting fear still with him even when, with a shriek
of the tugs, the great steamer swung into the river. He was leaving
forever the work to which he had given so much of his life, leaving it
a fugitive and dishonoured. The blaze of lights, the screaming of the
great ferry-boats, all the triumphant, brazen noises of the mighty
city, sounded like a requiem to him as in the darkest part of the
promenade deck he leaned over the railing and nursed his agony, the
supreme agony of an ambitious man--failure.