THE EMPTY ROOM
Duncombe unfastened the chain and bolts of the ponderous front door, and
looked out into the darkness. A carriage and pair of horses were drawn
up outside. A man and a woman, both dressed in long travelling-coats,
were standing upon the door-step.
"This is Duncombe Hall, I believe?" the man said. "Is Sir George
Duncombe at home?"
"I am Sir George Duncombe," he answered. "Will you come inside?"
They crossed the threshold at once. The man was tall and dark, and his
voice and bearing were unmistakable. The woman was fair, _petite_, and
apparently very sleepy. She wore magnificent furs, and she had the air
of being in a very bad temper.
"We really are heartily ashamed of ourselves for disturbing you at such
an hour, Sir George," the man said, "but you will pardon us when you
understand the position. I am the Marquis de St. Ethol, and this is my
wife. I have a letter to you from my friend the Duke of Chestow, with
whom we have been staying."
Duncombe concealed his astonishment as well as he was able. He bowed to
the lady, and led them towards the library. Spencer, who had heard them
coming, had hastily concealed his revolver, and was lounging in an
easy-chair reading the evening paper.
"I am afraid that my servants are all in bed," Duncombe said, "and I can
offer you only a bachelor's hospitality. This is my friend, Mr.
Spencer--the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. Wheel that easy-chair
up, Spencer, will you?"
Spencer's brow had betrayed not the slightest sign of surprise, but
Duncombe fancied that the Marquis had glanced at him keenly. He was
holding a note in his hand, which he offered to Duncombe.
"My errand is so unusual, and the hour so extraordinary," he said, "that
I thought it would be better for Chestow to write you a line or two.
Will you please read it?"
Duncombe tore open the envelope.
"CHESTOW, _Wednesday Evening_.
"MY DEAR DUNCOMBE,--My friend De St. Ethol tells me
that he is obliged, at great personal inconvenience, to
execute a commission for a friend which involves a somewhat
unceremonious call upon you to-night. He desires me,
therefore, to send you these few lines. The Marquis de St.
Ethol and his wife are amongst my oldest friends. It gives me
great pleasure to vouch for them both in every way.
"Yours sincerely,
"CHESTOW."
"The letter, I am afraid," the Marquis said, smiling, "does little to
satisfy your curiosity. Permit me to explain my errand in a few words."
"Certainly," Duncombe interrupted. "But won't you take something? I am
glad to see that Spencer is looking after your wife."
The Marquise had raised her veil, and was leaning back in a chair, with
a sandwich poised in the fingers of one hand and a glass of Burgundy in
the other. She was looking a little less bored, and was chatting gayly
to Spencer, whose French was equal to her own.
"I thank you very much," the Marquis said. "I will not take anything to
drink, but if you have cigarettes--ah, thanks!"
He lit one, and sat on the arm of an easy-chair.
"The facts are these," he said. "I have a great friend in Paris who,
knowing that I was at Chestow, and returning to France to-morrow, has, I
must say, taken some advantage of my good nature. I am asked to call
here and escort home to her friends a young lady, who, I understand, is
for the moment a guest under your roof. My friend, I must say,
telegraphs in a most mysterious manner, but he is evidently very anxious
that we should accede to his request. Our appearance here at this time
of night I admit is most unjustifiable, but what were we to do? It is
absolutely necessary for my wife to catch the two-twenty from Charing
Cross to-morrow. I hope that my friend will some day appreciate my
devotion. To come round by your house I have had to borrow a carriage
from my friend Chestow. We shall have to drive to Norwich, and catch a
train from there to London in the small hours of the morning. I presume
the young lady is here?"
"The young lady is here!" Duncombe answered. "May I inquire the name of
the friend to whom you are asked to take her?"
The Marquis yawned slightly. He, too, seemed weary.
"My dear Sir George," he said, "I trust that you will appreciate my
position in this matter. I do not even know the young lady's name. My
eccentric friend in his telegram, which occupied four forms, most
specially insisted that I should ask or answer no questions concerning
her."
"You are not aware, then, of the circumstances which led to her coming
here?" Duncombe asked.
"I am utterly ignorant of them," the Marquis answered. "I am constrained
to remain so."
"You no doubt have some message for her," Duncombe said. "Her position
here is a little peculiar. She may desire some sort of information as to
her destination."
The Marquis knocked the ash off his cigarette.
"If you will produce the young lady," he said, "I think that you will
find her prepared to come with us without asking any questions."
Duncombe threw open the door which led into the inner room. The girl
stepped forward as far as the threshold and looked out upon them.
"The Marquis and the Marquise de St. Ethol," Duncombe said to her. "They
have brought me a letter from the Duke of Chestow, and they have come to
take you back to France."
The girl looked fixedly for a moment at the Marquise. If any word or
sign passed between them it escaped Duncombe. Phyllis was content,
however, to ask no questions.
"I am quite ready," she said calmly.
The Marquise rose.
"Your luggage can be sent on," she remarked.
Duncombe approached Phyllis, and stood by her side.
"These people," he said, "will not tell me where they are taking you to.
Are you content to go?"
"I must go," she answered simply.
"You wish me to give you----"
"If you please," she interrupted.
He turned towards the door.
"I have something belonging to Miss--to my guest," he said, "in my own
room. If you will excuse me for a moment I will fetch it."
He returned with the sealed envelope which she had given him, and which
he placed in her hands. He carried also a fur coat and an armful of
wraps.
"You must take these," he declared. "It is cold travelling."
"But how can I return them to you?" she protested. "No, not the coat,
please. I will take a rug if you like."
"You will take both," he said firmly. "There need be no trouble about
returning them. I shall be in Paris myself shortly, and no doubt we
shall come across one another."
Her eyes flashed something at him. What it was he could not rightly
tell. It seemed to him that he saw pleasure there, and fear, but more of
the latter. The Marquis intervened.
"I trust," he said, "that in that case you will give us the pleasure of
seeing something of you. We live in the Avenue de St. Cloud."
"You are very kind," Duncombe said. "I shall not fail to come and see
you."
Spencer threw open the door, and they passed out. Phyllis kept by
Duncombe's side. He felt her hand steal into his.
"I want you to keep this envelope for me," she whispered. "It contains
nothing which could bring you into trouble, or which concerns any one
else. It is just something which I should like to feel was in safe
keeping."
He thrust it into his pocket.
"I will take care of it," he promised. "And--you won't forget me? We
shall meet again--sooner perhaps than you expect."
She shook her head.
"I hope to Heaven that we shall not! At least, not yet," she murmured
fervently.
From the carriage window she put out her hand.
"You have been very kind to me," she said. "Good-bye!"
"An impossible word," he answered, with well-affected gayety. "A
pleasant journey to you."
Then the carriage rolled away, and Spencer and he were left alone.
Duncombe secured the front door, and they walked slowly back to the
library.
"You know Paris well," Duncombe said. "Have you ever heard of these
people?"
Spencer smiled.
"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed. "De St. Ethol is one of the first nobles
in France. I have seen him at the races many times."
"Not the sort of people to lend themselves to anything shady?"
"The last in the world," Spencer answered. "She was the Comtesse de
Laugnan, and between them they are connected with half a dozen Royal
houses. This business is getting exceedingly interesting, Duncombe!"
But Duncombe was thinking of the empty room.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
GUY POYNTON AGAIN
"I Suppose," the boy said thoughtfully, "I must seem to you beastly
ungrateful. You've been a perfect brick to me ever since that night. But
I can't help being a bit homesick. You see, it was really the first time
I'd ever been away from home for long, and though my little place isn't
a patch on this, of course, still, I was born there, and I'm jolly fond
of it."
His companion nodded, and his dark eyes rested for a moment upon the
other's face. Guy Poynton was idly watching the reapers at work in the
golden valley below, and he did not catch his friend's expression.
"You are very young, _mon cher ami_," he said. "As one grows older one
demands change. Change always of scene and occupation. Now I, too, am
most hideously bored here, although it is my home. For me to live is
only possible in Paris--Paris, the beautiful."
Guy looked away from the fields. He resented a little his friend's air
of superiority.
"There's only a year's difference in our ages!" he remarked.
Henri de Bergillac smiled--this time more expressively than ever, and
held out his hands.
"I speak of experience, not years," he said. "You have lived for twenty
years in a very delightful spot no doubt, but away from everything which
makes life endurable, possible even, for the child of the cities. I have
lived for twenty-one years mostly in Paris. Ah, the difference!"
Guy shrugged his shoulders, and leaned back in his chair.
"Well," he said briefly, "tastes differ. I've seen quite all I want to
of Paris for the rest of my life. Give me a fine June morning in the
country, and a tramp round the farm, or an early morning start in
September walking down the partridges, or a gray day in November with a
good gee underneath, plenty of grass ahead, and hounds talking. Good
God, I wish I were back in England."
Henri smiled and caressed his upper lip, where symptoms of a moustache
were beginning to appear.
"My dear Guy," he said, "you speak crudely because you do not
understand. You know of Paris only its grosser side. How can one learn
more when he cannot even speak its language? You know the Paris of the
tourist. The real magic of my beautiful city has never entered into your
heart. Your little dabble in its vices and frivolities must not count to
you as anything final. The joy of Paris to one who understands is the
exquisite refinement, the unsurpassed culture, of its abysmal
wickedness."
"The devil!" Guy exclaimed. "Have you found out all that for yourself?"
Henri was slightly annoyed. He was always annoyed when he was not taken
seriously.
"I have had the advantage," he said, "of many friendships with men
whose names you would scarcely know, but who directed the intellectual
tendencies of the younger generation of Parisians. People call us
decadents--I suppose, because we prefer intellectual progression to
physical activity. I am afraid, dear friend, that you would never be one
of us."
"I am quite sure of it," Guy answered.
"You will not even drink absinthe," Henri continued, helping himself
from a little carafe which stood between them, "absolutely the most
artistic of all drinks. You prefer a thing you call a pipe to my
choicest cigarettes, and you have upon your cheeks a color of which a
ploughboy should be ashamed."
Guy laughed good-humoredly.
"Well, I can't help being sunburnt!" he declared. Henri sighed
delicately.
"Ah, it is not only that," he said. "I wish so much that I could make
you understand. You positively cultivate good health, take cold baths
and walks and exercises to preserve it."
"Why the dickens shouldn't I?"
Henri half closed his eyes. He was a dutiful nephew, but he felt that
another month with this clodhopper of an English boy would mean the
snapping of his finely strung nerves.
"My friend," he began gently, "we in Paris of the set to whom I belong
do not consider good health to be a state which makes for intellectual
progression. Good health means the triumph of the physical side of man
over the nervous. The healthy animal sleeps and eats too much. He does
not know the stimulus of pain. His normal condition is unaspiring--not
to say bovine. The first essential, therefore, of life, according to
our tenets, is to get rid of superfluous health."
Guy did not trust himself to speak this time. He only stared at his
companion, who seemed pleased to have evoked his interest.
"Directly the body is weakened," Henri continued, "the brain begins to
act. With the indisposition for physical effort comes activity of the
imagination. Cigarettes, drugs, our friend here," he continued, patting
the carafe, "late nights, _la belle passion_--all these--all these----"
He broke off in the middle of his sentence. Simultaneously he abandoned
his carefully chosen attitude of studied languor. He was leaning forward
in his chair watching a carriage which had just come into sight along
the straight wide road which led from the outside world to the chateau.
"The devil!" he exclaimed. "My respected uncle! Jacques!"
A man-servant stepped out upon the terrace.
"Monsieur!"
"Remove the absinthe, Jacques. Monsieur le Duc arrives!"
Guy, who also had been watching the carriage, gave utterance to a little
exclamation. He pointed to two figures on horseback who rode behind the
carriage.
"The gendarmes!" he exclaimed. "They have come for me at last!"
His face was no longer ruddy. The pallor of fear had crept to his
cheeks. A note of despair rang in his voice.
His companion only laughed.
"Gendarmes, perhaps," he answered, "but not for you, my young friend.
Have I not told you that you are in sanctuary here? A guest of the Duc
de Bergillac evades all suspicion. Ah, I understand well those
gendarmes. Let their presence cause you no anxiety, _cher monsieur_.
They are a guard of honor for my reverend uncle and the personage who
rides with him."
Guy resumed his chair, and sat with his head buried in his hands in an
attitude of depression. His companion leaned over the stone balustrade
of the terrace and waved his hand to the occupants of the carriage
below. They pulled up at the bottom of the steps and commenced slowly to
ascend. In obedience to an imperious gesture from his uncle, Henri
advanced to meet them. He greeted his uncle with graceful affection.
Before the other man, although his appearance was homely and his dress
almost untidy, he bowed very low indeed, and accepted his proffered hand
as a mark of favor.
The Duc de Bergillac was tall, sallow, with black moustache and
imperial. He possessed all the personal essentials of the aristocrat,
and he had the air of one accustomed to command.
"Henri," he said, "your young friend is with you?"
"But certainly," his nephew answered with a sigh. "Am I not always
obedient? He has scarcely been out of my sight since we arrived."
"Very good! You saw us arrive just now. Did you mention the name of
Monsieur Grisson?" the Duke asked.
"But certainly not!" Henri answered.
The Duke nodded.
"You have discretion," he said. "Monsieur Grisson is here incognito. He
wishes to hear your young friend's story from his own lips."
The Duke's companion nodded silently. He had the air of a silent man. He
was short, inclined to be stout, and his dress and bearing were almost
bourgeois. His features were large and not particularly intelligent, his
cheeks were puffy, and his gray beard ill-humored. He had the double
neck of the Frenchman of the lower class who has not denied himself the
joys of the cuisine, and his appearance would have been hopelessly
commonplace but for the deep-set brilliant black eyes which lit up his
whole face and gave it an aspect of power.
"After _déjeuner_, you understand," he said. "It is well that your young
friend should not understand that I came here for no other reason. I
will see first your manuscripts, Monsieur le Duc."
The Duke waved his hand courteously to Guy as the two men passed along
on their way to the library. Henri resumed his seat with a little shrug
of the shoulders.
"My respected uncle will bring such strange people here to see his
manuscripts and collection of missals," he remarked. "For myself it is a
hobby which wearies me. And you, _mon cher_ Guy?"
"I know nothing about them," he answered. "But the gendarmes, Henri? Why
did they ride with your uncle's carriage?"
Henri smiled reassuringly.
"The old gentleman," he said, "has something to do with the Government,
and they were in attendance upon him. You can realize, my friend," he
added, "that you are indeed in a republican country. Such people must
have the _entrée_ to our houses, even to our table. I presume that you
will have the pleasure of taking luncheon with him even."
A man-servant came out upon the terrace.
"Monsieur le Duc desires me to say that luncheon is served," he
announced.
Henri passed his arm through his friend's.
"Come," he said, "let us go and see if we can amuse ourselves with my
uncle's venerable friend. I do not suppose that he speaks English, but I
will interpret for you."
CHAPTER II
AN OLD STORY
Guy moved uneasily upon his chair. The color mounted almost to his
forehead. It was a humiliation this, upon which he had not counted.
Monsieur Grisson was sitting within a few feet of him. A serviette was
tucked carefully underneath his collar, and his face was a little
flushed with the exercise of eating. His eyes, however, were undimmed,
and his manners, although a little brusque, had certainly not merited
the epithet of bourgeois.
"It isn't much of a story," Guy began, making a desperate effort. "It
was my first visit to Paris, and I lost my head a bit. I drank too much
wine and quarrelled with a fellow who certainly insulted me. They all
told me that I must fight him, so----"
"Stop, Monsieur Poynton!"
Guy raised his head in surprise. The exclamation had come from the Duc
de Bergillac. Monsieur Grisson was looking towards him as though for an
explanation.
"My dear young friend," the Duke remarked with a smile, "it is my
stupidity which is to blame. I had forgotten the little matter to which
you are alluding, and--between ourselves--it is one which is very much
better not related to Monsieur Grisson. I was alluding to your other
adventure--up in the Pozen forest."
Guy for a moment was too astonished for words. Then he recovered himself
with a little laugh and raised his head. There was nothing terrible in
the other affair.
"I will tell Monsieur Grisson about that with pleasure," he said, "if it
is likely to interest him. I was in the North of Germany on a
walking-tour, and I had rather a stupid fancy to go as far as the
Russian frontier, and then return by Vienna to Paris. I was quite alone,
and had no one's plans but my own to consult, so I started off from
Steritz, I think the place was called. Well, we were within about forty
miles of a place called Renzan when our train was stopped and shunted.
We were told that some specials were to go by. I should think we must
have waited there for an hour or more. Anyhow I got sick of it, and
passed through the cars on to the rear platform, and down on to the
line. I spoke to the guard, and I understood him to say that we should
not be starting for at least half an hour. I strolled along the line a
little way and stopped to light a pipe. Suddenly I heard a whistle, and
when I turned round the rear light of the train was moving away. I
shouted and ran as hard as I could, but it was no use. In less than two
minutes the train was out of my sight, and I was left alone."
The Duke pushed a small atlas across the table.
"I wonder," he said, "if you could put your finger on about the spot
where you were? Here, you see, is the railway line."
Guy studied it for a few moments carefully, and looked at the scale.
Then he pointed to a certain spot.
"As near as I could say," he declared, "about there."
The Duke and Monsieur Grisson exchanged quick glances. Guy was beginning
to feel a little mystified.
"Proceed, if you please," the Duke said courteously. "I am sure that
Monsieur Grisson finds your story most interesting. Permit me."
Guy sipped the _fin champagne_ from the glass which the Duke had
carefully filled, and took a cigarette from the box at his elbow.
"I found myself," he continued, "in the middle of a dense pine forest,
with just sufficient clearing for two lines of rails and no more. There
seemed to be nothing for me to do but to walk ahead in the direction
which the train had taken. I lit a pipe and started out all right, but I
very soon got tired. The sleepers were a long way apart, and the track
between frightfully rough. I walked for hours without seeing the
slightest sign of a station or a break in the woods, and finally I sat
down dead beat. My feet were all blisters, and I felt that I couldn't
walk another yard. Fortunately it was a warm night, and I made up my
mind to crawl under the bracken just inside the wood and go to sleep. I
found a comfortable place, and I'd just gone off when a noise close at
hand woke me. I sat up and looked around.
"Within a few feet of me an engine and a single carriage had pulled up.
At intervals along the line as far as I could see soldiers were
stationed like sentries. I could see that they were looking sharply up
and down, and even a little way into the wood. From the train three or
four men in long cloaks had already descended. They were standing in the
track talking together."
For the first time Monsieur Grisson interrupted. He took his cigar from
his mouth and leaned over towards the young Englishman.
"You were lost yourself. You did not accost them? Ask them the way
anywhere?"
"It seems odd, I suppose, that I didn't," Guy answered, "but do you know
there was an air of secrecy about the whole thing which rather
frightened me. And those soldiers had exactly the air of looking for
somebody to shoot. Anyhow, while I was hesitating what to do, there was
a whistle and another train came from the opposite direction. Then, of
course, I waited to see what was going to happen."
"And you saw?" the Duke began.
"I saw another single carriage arrive, more men in long cloaks and more
soldiers. There was a brief but hearty greeting between two men, who
seemed to be the principals in this little pantomime. Then they both got
into the train which had arrived first, and I could see them sitting at
a table talking, and a third man, who seemed to be a sort of secretary,
was writing all the time. In about half an hour they both stepped back
on to the line, and every one commenced shaking hands and saying
good-bye. Then the whole thing seemed to melt away. The trains went on,
the soldiers climbed into a truck attached to one of them, and
everything was just as quiet as before."
"And afterwards?"
"I waited until it was clear daylight, and then I resumed my walk along
the line. I found the next station about five miles off, and I was
thankful to see that the guard of the train which had left me behind had
had the sense to put my luggage out there. I went to the hotel and had
some breakfast, and afterwards I chucked my idea of going so far as the
frontier, and left for Vienna. A week later I was in Paris."
The Duke nodded.
"I have asked you this question before," he said "but Monsieur Grisson
is anxious to hear it from your own lips. To how many people did you
tell this little adventure of yours before you reached Paris?"
"To not a soul!" Guy answered. "I was very dull in Vienna. I found no
one who could speak English and my few words of German did me no good at
all. I came on to Paris within a week."
The Duke nodded.
"And in Paris for the first time!" he remarked. "You mentioned the
affair?"
"Yes! I took up an illustrated paper at a café on the night of my
arrival whilst waiting for supper, and saw pictures of two men there who
reminded me very much of the two whom I had seen on the railway near
Pozen. I think I made some remark out loud which attracted the attention
of a woman who was sitting at the next table, and later on I told her
the whole story."
"And since then?"
"Since then I have told it to no one."
"Was there any one in the café you have spoken of who seemed to take any
particular interest in you?"
Guy considered for a moment.
"There was a young lady from Vienna," he said, "who seemed to want to
talk to me."
The two men exchanged glances.
"Madame has justified herself," the Duke murmured.
"She was trying to listen to what I was saying to the English
girl--Mademoiselle Flossie, she called herself, and when she went away
with her friends she threw me a note with two words on it--'_prenez
garde!_' I know it struck me as being rather queer, because----"
He hesitated. The Duke nodded.
"Go on!" he said.
"Well, I may as well tell you everything," Guy continued, "even if it
does sound rather like rot. All the time I was in Vienna and on the
journey to Paris I fancied that I was being followed. I kept on seeing
the same people, and a man who got in at Strasburg--I had seen him
before at the hotel in Vienna--tried all he could to pal up to me. I
hate Germans though, and I didn't like the look of the fellow, so I
wouldn't have anything to say to him, though I feel sure he tipped the
conductor to put him in my compartment. I gave him the slip at the
railway station at Paris, but I'm almost sure I saw him that night at
the Café Montmartre."
"Your story," Monsieur Grisson said quietly, "becomes more and more
interesting. Monsieur le Duc here has hinted at some slight indiscretion
of yours on the night of your arrival in Paris. I have some influence
with the Government here, and I think I can promise you some very
substantial help in return for the information you have given us. But I
want you to turn your thoughts back to the night you spent by the
railroad. Can you remember anything further about it, however trifling,
which you have not told us?"
Guy leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment.
"By Jove," he declared, "there is something which I forgot altogether.
Just before that little party in the railway saloon broke up the chap in
the car who had been writing left his seat, and a loose page of paper
fluttered through the window."
The two men leaned across the table almost simultaneously.
"What became of it?" the Duke asked sharply.
"I picked it up and put it in my pocket," Guy answered.
"Did you read it?" the Duke asked.
"I couldn't! It was in German!"
"Where is it now?" Monsieur Grisson demanded.
Guy reflected. The faces of the two men amazed him. It was as though
great things depended upon his answer.
"It is with my pocketbook and my letter of credit. I remember that I
kept it as a curiosity."
"A curiosity!" the Duke exclaimed. "You have it here?"
Guy shook his head.
"It is in my portmanteau!" he answered.
The faces of the two men betrayed their disappointment. They conversed
for a few moments in rapid French. Then the Duke turned to Guy.
"You do not object to our sending a trusted person to look through your
portmanteau!" he asked. "Monsieur Grisson and I are very curious about
that sheet of paper."
"Certainly not," Guy answered. "But may I not have my luggage here?"
The Duke shook his head.
"Not yet," he said. "It would not be wise. We must give Monsieur
Grisson time to arrange your little affair."
"I don't want to seem a nuisance," Guy continued, "but about my sister?"
"She has been assured of your safety," the Duke declared. "For the rest
we will talk later in the day. Monsieur Grisson and I are going to the
telephone. You will find Henri on the terrace."
CHAPTER III
A BODY FROM THE SEINE
"At the sport, my young friend," Henri murmured, from the depths of his
basket chair, "I yield you without question supremacy. Your rude games,
trials mostly of brute strength, do not interest me. Your horsemanship I
must confess that I envy, and I fear that you are a better shot. But two
things remain to me."
"Only two?" Guy murmured. "What unexampled modesty!"
"I can drive a racing automobile at eighty miles an hour, and with the
foils I can play with you."
"I give you the first," Guy answered, "but I'm beginning to fancy myself
a bit with the sticks. Let's have a bout!"
"My dear Guy," Henri exclaimed, "forgive me, but what a crude
suggestion! The first breeze of the day is just coming up from the lake.
Close your eyes as I do. Can't you catch the perfume of the roses and
the late lilac? Exquisite. In half an hour you will see a new green in
the woods there as the sun drops. This is silent joy. You would exchange
it for vulgar movement."
"I don't see anything vulgar about fencing," Guy replied. "It's all
right here, of course, but I'm getting stiff, and I haven't the appetite
of a kitten. I should like a good hour's bout, a swim afterwards in the
baths, and a rub down. Come on, Henri! It'll make us as fit as
possible."
Henri shivered a little.
"My young friend," he murmured, "you move me to despair. How can an
alliance between nations with such contrary ideals be possible? You
would desert a beautiful scene like this to gain by vulgar exercise an
appetite that you may eat. Can't you realize the crudeness of it? Yet I
must remember that you are my guest," he added, striking the bell by his
side. "Antoine shall prepare my linen clothes, and I will give you a
lesson. Antoine," he added, half turning to the man-servant who stood by
his elbow, "my black linen fencing-clothes and shoes in the
dressing-room, and have the floor in the fencing-gallery sprinkled with
sand."
The man bowed, and Henri slowly rose from his chair.
"Don't bother about it, you know, if you mind very much," Guy said.
"Would you rather have a game of billiards, or a swim in the lake?"
Henri thrust his arm through his friend's.
"By no means," he answered. "If we are to do anything at all we will do
the thing in which I excel. It feeds my vanity, which is good for me,
for by disposition I am over-modest."
But they were not destined to fence that night, for on their way across
the hall the Duke's own servant intercepted them.
"Monsieur le Duc," he announced, "desires to speak with Monsieur in the
library."
Henri let go his friend's arm.
"I return to the terrace, _mon ami_," he said. "You can fetch me when
my respected uncle has finished with you."
Monsieur le Duc and Monsieur Grisson were still together. Immediately
the door was closed the former turned to Guy.
"Your luggage has been thoroughly searched," he announced, "by a trusty
agent. The letter of credit is still there, but the paper of which you
spoke is missing."
Guy looked a little incredulous.
"I know it was there the evening I left the hotel," he answered. "It was
fastened to my letter of credit by an elastic band. The man you sent
must have missed it."
The Duke shook his head.
"That," he said, "is impossible. The paper has been abstracted."
"But who could have known about it?" Guy protested.
"Monsieur Poynton," the Duke said, "we think it well--Monsieur Grisson
and I--to take you a little further into our confidence. Has it occurred
to you, I wonder, to appreciate the significance of what you saw on the
railway in the forest of Pozen?"
"I'm afraid--not altogether," Guy answered.
"We assumed as much," the Duke said. "What you did see was this. You saw
a meeting between the German Emperor and the Czar of Russia. It was
marvellously well arranged, and except those interested you were
probably the only witness. According to the newspapers they were never
less than four hundred miles apart, but on the day in question the
Emperor was reported to be confined to his room by a slight chill, and
the Czar to be resting after a fatiguing journey. You understand that
this meeting was meant to be kept a profound secret?"
Guy nodded.
"But why?" he asked. "Was there any special reason why they should not
meet?"
"My young friend," the Duke answered gravely, "this meeting of which you
were the only witness might, but for your chance presence there, have
altered the destiny of Europe. Try how you will you cannot appreciate
its far-reaching possibilities. I will endeavor to give you the bare
outlines of the affair. Even you, I suppose, have observed or heard of
the growing friendship between my country and yours, which has
culminated in what is called the _entente cordiale_."
"Yes, I know as much as that," Guy admitted.
"This movement," the Duke said, "has been looked upon with growing
distaste and disfavor in Russia. Russia is the traditional and
inevitable enemy of your country. Russia had, I may go so far as to say,
made up her mind for war with England very soon after her first reverses
at the hands of Japan. I am telling you now what is a matter of common
knowledge amongst diplomatists when I tell you that it was the attitude
of my country--of France--which alone has stayed her hand."
"This is very interesting," Guy said, "even to me, who have never taken
any interest in politics, but----"
"Wait! Russia, as I say, found us indisposed to back her in any quarrel
with England. She turned then, of course, to Germany. We became aware,
through our secret service, that something was on foot between the two
countries. With our utmost vigilance we were unable to obtain any
particulars. It is you, Monsieur Poynton, who have brought us the first
information of a definite character."
Guy looked his amazement, but he said nothing.
"To you," the Duke continued, "a secret meeting between these two
monarchs may not seem at all an astonishing thing. To us it is of the
gravest political importance. Some sort of an understanding was arrived
at between them. What was it? That sheet of paper which was once in your
possession might very possibly contain the clue. Now you can appreciate
its importance to us."
"What an ass I was not to take more care of it!" Guy muttered.
"There are other things to be considered," the Duke continued. "For the
last month every dockyard in Germany has been working night and day, and
we have authentic information as to a huge mobilization scheme which is
already on foot. We might have wondered against whom these preparations
were intended but for you. As it is, the English Government has been
fully apprised of everything. Your magnificent fleet, under the pretext
of seeing the Baltic Squadron safely on its way, has been gradually
concentrated. From despatches to the German Ambassador which we have
managed to intercept in England, we know that it is intended to raise a
_casus belli_ during the presence of the squadron in British waters.
Quite unexpectedly, as it was hoped, Germany was to range herself on
Russia's side and strike against England. We, Russia's nominal ally,
have had no intimation of this whatever. We are apparently left to
ourselves--ignored. Our friendship with your country has destroyed
Russia's friendship for us. She relies no doubt on our neutrality, and
she makes terms, doubtless absurdly favorable ones, with our ancient
enemy. In the eyes of the world France is to be made to appear
ridiculous. The German Empire is to be ruled from London, and the
Emperor Wilhelm's known ambition is to be realized."
"It sounds," Guy admitted, "like a nightmare. I know you foreigners all
think we English are a lot too cock-sure, but we have our own ideas, you
know, about any attempt at invasion."
"I am afraid," the Duke said, "that when it comes to throwing a million
men at different points of your coasts protected by a superb navy you
might find yourselves unpleasantly surprised. But let that pass. Have I
said enough to make you understand the importance of what you saw in the
forest of Pozen? Good! Now I want you to understand this. In the
interests of your country and mine it is most important that the fact of
our knowledge of this meeting should be kept a profound secret."
"Yes," Guy said, "I understand that."
"Your presence there," the Duke continued, "created a certain amount of
suspicion. You were watched to Paris by German spies, and if they had
had the least idea of how much you had seen your life would not have
been worth five minutes' purchase. As it is they are uneasy over your
disappearance. There are at least a dozen men and women in Paris and
England to-day who are searching for you! You are moderately safe here,
but not altogether. I want to put them finally off the scent. I might,
of course, put you into such confinement that detection would be
impossible. I do not want to do that. You have rendered your own country
and mine an immense service. I prefer to treat you as a gentleman and a
man of honor, and to take you, as I hope you will see that I have done,
into our entire confidence."
"Monsieur le Duc," Guy answered, "I can assure you that I appreciate all
that you have said. I am willing to do exactly as you say."
"To-morrow morning's papers," the Duke said slowly, "will contain an
account of the finding of your body in the Seine."
"My what!" Guy exclaimed.
"Your body! We are going to stab and drown you. Perhaps I should say we
are going to discover you stabbed and drowned."
Guy half rose from his seat.
"I say----" he began.
"I need not explain, of course," the Duke continued, "that you will
suffer by proxy. The whole affair has been carefully arranged by the
commissioners of police.
"An account of your doings since you arrived in Paris will be given,
which I fear may not flatter you, but you must remember that it is
necessary to put our German friends completely off the scent, and in a
month's time or so you will reappear, and everything will be
contradicted."
"But my sister?" Guy exclaimed.
"Concerning your sister," the Duke continued, "we have further
explanations, perhaps I should say apologies, to offer you at some
future time. For the present--this only. She is now in Paris. She is to
some extent in our confidence, and you shall see her within the next few
days."
"And what are you going to do with me really?" Guy asked.
"You will remain here. Half the servants of the household have been
dismissed, and every one who is not absolutely trustworthy has been got
rid of. We are in close consultation with your English Cabinet, and the
moment the time arrives for us to disclose our knowledge of these
secrets you will be free to go where you please."
"Absolutely free?" Guy asked anxiously.
"Certainly!" the Duke answered. "The other little affair is cancelled by
your present services. In fact, as regards that, you need not give
yourself another moment's anxiety."
A small telephone which stood upon the table rang sharply. The Duke
exchanged a few sentences and replaced the receiver. He turned to Guy.
"It is an affair of the tides," he said. "Your body was washed up this
afternoon, six hours before time. It will be in the evening papers. Ah!"
The telephone rang again. This time it was Monsieur Grisson who was
required. He listened for a moment or two with inscrutable countenance.
Then he glanced at the clock.
"The Russian Ambassador," he said, replacing the receiver, "desires an
immediate interview with me on a matter of the utmost importance--and
the Russian Fleet has left the Baltic!"
CHAPTER IV
THE INSOLENCE OF MADAME LA MARQUISE
Duncombe was passed from the concierge to a footman, and from a footman
to a quietly dressed groom of the chambers, who brought him at last to
Madame la Marquise. She gave him the tips of her fingers and a somewhat
inquiring gaze.
"Sir George Duncombe, is it not?" she remarked. "I am not receiving this
afternoon, but your message was so urgent. Forgive me, but it was not by
any chance my husband whom you wished to see?"
"Your husband would have done as well, Madame," Duncombe answered
bluntly, "but I learned that he was not at home. My visit is really to
Miss Poynton. I should be exceedingly obliged if you would allow me the
privilege of a few minutes' conversation with her."
The forehead of the Marquise was wrinkled with surprise. She stood
amidst all the wonders of her magnificent drawing-room like a dainty
Dresden doll--petite, cold, dressed to perfection. Her manner and her
tone were alike frigid.
"But, Monsieur," she said, "that is wholly impossible. Mademoiselle is
too thoroughly upset by the terrible news in the paper this morning. It
is unheard of. Monsieur may call again if he is a friend of Mademoiselle
Poynton's--say, in a fortnight."
"Marquise," he said, "it is necessary that I see Mademoiselle at once. I
am the bearer of good news."
The Marquise looked at him steadily.
"Of good news, Monsieur?"
"Certainly!"
"But how can that be?"
"If Madame will give me the opportunity," he said, "I should only be too
glad to explain--to Mademoiselle Poynton."
"If, indeed, it should be good news," the Marquise said slowly, "it were
better broken gradually to Mademoiselle. I will take her a message."
"Permit me to see her, Marquise," he begged. "My errand is indeed
important."
She shook her head.
"It is not," she said, "according to the _convenances_. Mademoiselle is
under my protection. I have not the honor of knowing you, Monsieur."
Duncombe raised his eyebrows.
"But you remember calling at my house in Norfolk, and bringing Miss
Poynton away," he said.
She stared at him calmly.
"The matter," she said, "has escaped my memory. I do not love your
country, Monsieur, and my rare visits there do not linger in my mind."
"Your husband," he reminded her, "asked me to visit you here."
"My husband's friends," she replied, "are not mine."
The calm insolence of her manner towards him took him aback. He had
scarcely expected such a reception.
"I can only apologize, Madame," he said with a bow, "for intruding. I
will await your husband's return in the hall."
He bowed low, and turned to leave the room. He had almost reached the
door before she stopped him.
"Wait!"
He turned round. Her voice was different.
"Come and sit down here," she said, pointing to a sofa by her side.
He obeyed her, thoroughly amazed. She leaned back amongst the cushions
and looked at him thoughtfully.
"How is it that you--an Englishman--speak French so well?" she asked.
"I lived in Paris for some years," he answered.
"Indeed! And yet you returned to--Norfolk, is it?"
He bowed.
"It is true, Madame!" he admitted.
"How droll!" she murmured. "Miss Poynton--she is an old friend of
yours?"
"I am very anxious to see her, Madame!"
"Why?"
He hesitated. After all, his was no secret mission.
"I have reason to believe," he said, "that a mistake has been made in
the identity of the body found in the Seine and supposed to be her
brother's."
She gave a little start. It seemed to him that from that moment she
regarded him with more interest.
"But that, Monsieur," she said, "is not possible."
"Why not?"
She did not answer him for a moment. Instead she rang a bell.
A servant appeared almost immediately.
"Request Monsieur le Marquis to step this way immediately he returns,"
she ordered.
The man bowed and withdrew. The Marquise turned again to Duncombe.
"It is quite impossible!" she repeated. "Do you know who it was that
identified--the young man?"
Duncombe shook his head.
"I know nothing," he said. "I saw the notice in the paper, and I have
been to the Morgue with a friend."
"Were you allowed to see it?"
"No! For some reason or other we were not. But we managed to bribe one
of the attendants, and we got the police description."
"This," Madame said, "is interesting. Well?"
"There was one point in particular in the description," Duncombe said,
"and a very important one, which proved to us both that the dead man was
not Guy Poynton."
"It is no secret, I presume?" she said. "Tell me what it was."
Duncombe hesitated. He saw no reason for concealing the facts.
"The height of the body," he said, "was given as five feet nine. Guy
Poynton was over six feet."
The Marquise nodded her head slowly.
"And now," she said, "shall I tell you who it is who identified the body
at the Morgue--apart from the papers which were found in his pocket, and
which certainly belonged to Mr. Poynton?"
"I should be interested to know," he admitted.
"It was Miss Poynton herself. It is that which has upset her so. She
recognized him at once."
"Are you sure of this, Madame?" Duncombe asked.
"I myself," the Marquise answered, "accompanied her there. It was
terrible."
Duncombe looked very grave.
"I am indeed sorry to hear this," he said. "There can be no possibility
of any mistake, then?"
"None whatever!" the Marquise declared.
"You will permit me to see her?" Duncombe begged. "If I am not a very
old friend--I am at least an intimate one."
The Marquise shook her head.
"She is not in a fit state to see any one," she declared. "The visit to
the Morgue has upset her almost as much as the affair itself. You must
have patience, Monsieur. In a fortnight or three weeks at the earliest
she may be disposed to see friends. Certainly not at present."
"I may send her a message?" Duncombe asked.
The Marquise nodded.
"Yes. You may write it, if you like."
"And I may wait for an answer?"
"Yes."
Duncombe scribbled a few lines on the back of a visiting-card. The
Marquise took it from him and rose.
"I will return," she said. "You shall be entirely satisfied."
She left him alone for nearly ten minutes. She had scarcely left the
room when another visitor entered. The Vicomte de Bergillac, in a dark
brown suit and an apple-green tie, bowed to Duncombe, and carefully
selected the most comfortable chair in his vicinity.
"So you took my advice, Monsieur," he remarked, helping himself to a
cushion from another chair, and placing it behind his head.
"I admit it," Duncombe answered. "On the whole I believe that it was
very good advice."
"Would you," the Vicomte murmured, "like another dose?"
"I trust," Duncombe said, "that there is no necessity."
The Vicomte reflected.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"To see Miss Poynton."
"And again why?"
Duncombe smiled. The boy's manner was so devoid of impertinence that he
found it impossible to resent his questions.
"Well," he said, "I came hoping to bring Miss Poynton some good news. I
had information which led me seriously to doubt whether the body which
has been found in the Seine is really her brother's."
The Vicomte sat up as though he had been shot.
"My friend," he said slowly, "I take some interest in you, but, upon my
word, I begin to believe that you will end your days in the Morgue
yourself. As you value your life, don't tell any one else what you have
told me. I trust that I am the first."
"I have told the Marquise," Duncombe answered, "and she has gone to find
out whether Miss Poynton will see me."
The Vicomte's patent boot tapped the floor slowly.
"You have told the Marquise," he repeated thoughtfully. "Stop! I must
think!"
There was a short silence. Then the Vicomte looked up.
"Very well," he said. "Now listen! Have you any confidence in me?"
"Undoubtedly," Duncombe answered. "The advice you gave me before was, I
know, good. It was confirmed a few hours following, and, as you know, I
followed it."
"Then listen," the Vicomte said. "_L'affaire Poynton_ is in excellent
hands. The young lady will come to no harm. You are here, I know,
because you are her friend. You can help her if you will."
"How?" Duncombe asked.
"By leaving Paris to-day."
"Your advice," Duncombe said grimly, "seems to lack variety."
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.
"The other affair," he said; "is still open. If I stepped to the
telephone here you would be arrested within the hour."
"Can't you leave the riddles out and talk so that an ordinary man can
understand you for a few minutes?" Duncombe begged.
"It is exactly what remains impossible," the Vicomte answered smoothly.
"But you know the old saying, you have doubtless something similar in
your own country, 'It is from our friends we suffer most.' Your
presence here, your--forgive me--somewhat clumsy attempts to solve this
_affaire Poynton_, are likely to be a cause of embarrassment to the
young lady herself and to others. Apart from that, it will certainly
cost you your life."
"Without some shadow of an explanation," Duncombe said calmly, "I remain
where I am in case I can be of assistance to Miss Poynton."
The young man shrugged his shoulders, and sauntering to a mirror
rearranged his tie. Madame la Marquise entered.
"You, Henri!" she exclaimed.
He bowed low with exaggerated grace, and kissed the tips of her fingers.
"I!" he answered. "And--for this time with a perfectly legitimate reason
for my coming. A commission from my uncle."
"_L'affaire Poynton?_"
"Exactly, dear cousin."
"But why," she asked, "did they not show you into my room?"
"I learnt that my friend Sir George Duncombe was here, and I desired to
see him," he rejoined.
She shrugged her dainty shoulders.
"You will wait!" she directed. Then she turned to Duncombe, and handed
him a sealed envelope.
"If you please," she said, "will you read that--now."
He tore it open, and read the few hasty lines. Then he looked up, and
met the Marquise's expectant gaze.
"Madame," he said slowly, "does this come from Miss Poynton of her own
free will?"
She laughed insolently.
"Monsieur," she said, "my guests are subject to no coercion in this
house."
He bowed, and turned towards the door.
"Your answer, Monsieur?" she called out.
"There is no answer," he replied.
CHAPTER V
THE INTERVIEWING OF PHYLLIS
THE Marquise made a wry face at his departing figure, which changed
swiftly into a smile as she turned to the young Vicomte.
"Ah, these Englishmen!" she exclaimed. "These dull, good, obstinate,
stupid pigs of Englishmen! If they would lose their tempers once--get
angry, anything. Do they make love as coldly, I wonder?"
"Dear cousin," he answered, "I do not know. But if you will permit me I
will show you----"
"Henri!"
He sighed.
"You are so adorable, Angèle," he murmured.
"And you," she answered, "are so indiscreet. It is not your day, and I
am expecting Gustav at any moment, I have left word that he is to be
shown up here. There, my hand for one moment, not so roughly, sir. And
now tell me why you came."
"On a diplomatic errand, my dear cousin. I must see Miss Poynton."
She touched a bell.
"I will send for her," she said. "I shall not let you see her alone. She
is much too good-looking, and you are far too impressionable!"
He looked at her reproachfully.
"Angèle," he said, "you speak so of a young English miss--to me, Henri
de Bergillac--to me who have known--who knows----"
She interrupted him laughing. The exaggerated devotion of his manner
seemed to amuse her.
"My dear Henri!" she said. "I do not believe that even a young English
miss is safe from you. But attend! She comes."
Phyllis entered the room and came towards them. She was dressed in
black, and she was still pale, but her eyes and mouth were wholly
without affinity to the class of young person whom Henri had expected to
see. He rose and bowed, and Phyllis regarded him with frank interest.
"Phyllis," the Marquise said, "this is the Vicomte de Bergillac, and he
brings you messages from some one or other. Your affairs are quite too
complicated for my little head. Sit down and let him talk to you."
"If Monsieur le Vicomte has brought me messages from the right person,"
Phyllis said with a smile, "he will be very welcome. Seriously,
Monsieur, I seem to have fallen amongst friends here whose only
unkindness is an apparent desire to turn my life into a maze. I hope
that you are going to lead me out."
"I can conceive, Mademoiselle," the Vicomte answered with his hand upon
his heart, "no more delightful undertaking."
"Then I am quite sure," she answered, laughing softly, "that we are both
going to be very happy. Please go on!"
"Mademoiselle speaks delightful French," he murmured, a little
surprised.
"And, Monsieur, I can see," she answered, "is an apt flatterer.
Afterwards as much as you please. But now--well, I want to hear about
Guy."
"Mademoiselle has commanded," he said with a little gesture. "To proceed
then. Monsieur Guy is well, and is my constant companion. He is with
friends who wish him well, and this morning, Mademoiselle, the President
himself has given written orders to the police to proceed no further in
the unfortunate little affair of which Mademoiselle has knowledge."
Phyllis had lost all her pallor. She smiled delightfully upon him.
Madame la Marquise rose with a little impatient movement, and walked to
the further end of the room.
"How nice of you to come and tell me this," she exclaimed, "and what a
relief! I am sure I think he is very fortunate to have made such good
friends."
"Mademoiselle," he declared with emphasis, "one at least of those
friends is more than repaid."
She laughed back into his eyes, frankly amused by his gallantry.
"And now," she said, "we come to the beginning of the riddles. Why is it
necessary for him to be supposed drowned, if he is no longer in danger
from the police?"
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I must speak to you now of strange things.
But, first, I must implore you to promise me this, and remember it
always. Every word that I am going to say to you now must remain for the
present a profound secret. That is agreed?"
"Certainly!" she answered.
"Your brother," he continued, "in his travels on the Continent stumbled
by chance upon a State secret of international importance. He had
himself no idea of it, but a chance word which he let fall, on the first
evening I met him, gave the clue to myself and some friends. In his
enforced retirement we--that is, my uncle and others--learned from him
the whole story of his adventure. It has placed the Government of this
country under great obligations. This, together with your service to us,
has secured his pardon."
"This is wonderful!" she murmured.
"It is not all," he continued. "The spies of the country where he learnt
this secret have followed him to Paris. They are to-day searching for
him everywhere. If they knew that he realized the importance of what he
had seen, and had communicated it to the proper persons here, our
advantage in knowing it would be largely lost. So far they have not
traced him. Now, I think that you have the key to what must have puzzled
you so much."
"This is wonderful!" she murmured. "Let me think for a moment."
"You are naturally anxious," the Vicomte continued, "to see your
brother. Before very long, Mademoiselle, I trust that it may be my
pleasure to bring you together. But when I tell you that you are watched
continually in the hope that, through you, your brother's hiding-place
may be found, you will understand the wisdom which for the present keeps
you apart."
"I suppose so," she answered dubiously. "But now that his death is
reported?"
"Exactly, Mademoiselle. The affair has been arranged so that the search
for your brother will be abandoned and the espionage on you removed. If
the story of his doings in Paris, and the tragic sequel to them, be
believed by those whom we wish to believe it, then they will also assume
that his secret has died with him, and that their schemes move on
towards success. You understand?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, I understand," she answered slowly. "What,
then, do you wish me to do?"
"Mademoiselle," the Vicomte answered, fixing his dark eyes impressively
upon her, "for you there remains the hardest of all tasks--inaction.
Believe me that when I came here, it was not my intention to put the
truth of the matter so plainly before you. Neither was it the will of
those whose orders I carry out. But I, Mademoiselle, before all things,
I believe in inspiration. I find in Mademoiselle"--he bowed once
more--"qualities which alter the situation. I--a judge of faces as I
venture to believe myself--have looked into yours, and many things have
happened."
She laughed delightfully. Her eyes were lit with humor.
"Ah, Monsieur!" she protested.
"With you, Mademoiselle," he continued, "reposes now a secret of great
importance to your country and mine. I ask for no pledge of discretion,
but I rely upon it. And, especially, Mademoiselle, may I warn you
against your friends?"
"I understand," she answered. "You wish me to share this confidence with
no one."
"With no one," the Vicomte repeated impressively. "Not even,
Mademoiselle, if I may venture to mention a name, with your very
persistent admirer, Sir George Duncombe, whom I saw here a few moments
since."
She sighed, and the Vicomte's face became one of pale anxiety.
"I have not been permitted to see him," she answered. "He was here a few
minutes ago."
"It is wiser so, Mademoiselle," the Vicomte said. "I wonder," he added,
"whether Mademoiselle will pardon the impertinence of a purely personal
question?"
"I will try," she answered demurely.
"This Englishman--Sir George Duncombe--are you perhaps--how you say,
betrothed to him?"
A certain bluntness in the question, and the real or affected anxiety of
the young man's tone brought the color streaming into her cheeks.
"Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you really must not----"
"Ah, but, Mademoiselle," he interrupted, "so much depends upon your
answer."
"Absurd!" she murmured. "I really do not see why I should answer such a
question at all."
"You will be merciful?" he begged, lowering his tone.
"I will," she answered. "I hope you will appreciate my confidence. I am
not engaged to Sir George Duncombe."
His sigh of relief was marvellous. She found it harder than ever to keep
the laughter from her eyes.
"Mademoiselle," he declared, "it makes me happy to have you say this."
"Really, Vicomte!" she protested.
"The situation, too," he said, "becomes less complex. We can very easily
deal with him now. He shall annoy you no more!"
"But he doesn't annoy me," she answered calmly. "On the contrary I
should like to see him very much, if I were permitted."
"Mademoiselle will understand well the indiscretion," he said earnestly.
She sighed a little wearily.
"I am afraid," she said, "that I find it a little hard to understand
anything clearly, but you see that I trust you. I will not see him."
"Mademoiselle is very wise," he answered. "Indeed, it is better not.
There remains now a question which I have come to ask."
"Well?"
"Mademoiselle did not by chance whilst waiting for her brother think of
examining his luggage?"
She nodded.
"I did look through it," she admitted.
"There was a paper there, which is missing now--a sheet of paper with
writing on it--in German. It is not possible that Mademoiselle took
possession of it?" he demanded eagerly.
She nodded.
"That is just what I did do," she said. "I could read a few words, and I
could not understand how it came to be in his bag. It seemed to be part
of an official agreement between two countries."
"You have it now?" he cried eagerly. "You have it in your possession?"
She shook her head
"I gave it to some one to take care of," she said, "when I was over in
England. I got frightened when we were nearly caught at Runton, and I
did not want it to be found upon me."
"To whom?" he cried.
"To Sir George Duncombe!"
The Vicomte was silent for a moment.
"You believe," he asked, "that Sir George Duncombe would guard it
carefully?"
"I am sure he would," she answered.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "this is very important. Your brother's luggage
has been searched, and we came to the conclusion that the paper had been
taken by those who had followed him here, and may possibly have been
aware that he had it. If we can get possession of it, it will be very
much to the advantage of your country and mine. I scarcely dare say
more. Will you give me a letter to Sir George instructing him to deliver
it up to me?"
She leaned a little forward and looked steadily into his eyes.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, "I do not know you very well, and it is
very hard indeed for me to tell who are my friends here. Can I trust
you?"
"Mademoiselle," he answered, "I will not say 'like your brother,' for it
is a relationship I have no wish to bear. Let me say like the person to
whom your welfare is dearer even than his own."
Phyllis felt her lips curve into a smile. Despite his youth and manner,
which seemed to her a little affected, there was nevertheless undoubted
earnestness in the admiration which he took no pains to conceal.
"Very well, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, "I will give you the
letter."
CHAPTER VI
THE BLUNDERING OF ANDREW
They came face to face in the hall of the Grand Hotel. Duncombe had just
returned from his call upon the Marquise. Andrew was leaning upon the
arm of a dark, smooth-shaven man, and had apparently just descended from
the lift. At the sound of Duncombe's little exclamation they both
stopped short. Andrew turned his heavily spectacled eyes in Duncombe's
direction, but it was obvious that he saw nothing.
"You here, Andrew!"
"Yes! Why not?"
The tone was curt, almost discourteous. Duncombe understood at once.
"Let us sit down somewhere, and talk for a few minutes," he said. "I did
not expect you. You should have let me know that you were coming."
Andrew laughed a little bitterly.
"I scarcely see why," he said. "To tell you the truth, I see no
advantage to either of us in any intercourse."
Duncombe took him by the arm and led him towards the smoking-room.
"Andrew," he said, "perhaps I have behaved badly--at least from your
point of view, but remember that I warned you. Let us sit down here. Who
is your friend?"
"Never mind," Andrew answered. "You can say what you have to before him.
He is in my confidence."
Duncombe glanced around. The man had taken the chair next to them, and
was evidently prepared to listen to all that was said. His clothes and
bearing, and quiet, unobtrusive manners, all seemed to suggest
truthfully enough his possible identity--an English detective from an
advertised office. Duncombe smiled as he realized the almost pitiful
inadequacy of such methods.
"Come, Andrew," he said, turning to his friend, "you have a small
grievance against me, and you think you have a great one."
"A small grievance!" Andrew murmured softly. "Thank you, Duncombe."
"Go on, then. State it!" Duncombe declared. "Let me hear what is in your
mind."
Andrew raised his brows slowly. Twice he seemed to speak, but at the
last moment remained silent. He was obviously struggling to control
himself.
"There is this in my mind against you, Duncombe," he said finally. "I
sent for you as a friend. You accepted a charge from me--as my friend.
And you betrayed me."
Duncombe shook his head.
"Listen, Andrew," he said. "I want to remind you again of what I said
just now. I warned you! No, don't interrupt. It may have sounded like
nonsense to you. I meant every word I said. I honestly tried to make you
understand. I came here; I risked many things. I failed! I returned to
England. Up till then you had nothing to complain of. Then, Heaven knows
why, but the very girl whom I had gone to Paris to seek came to Runton
in the guise at least of an adventuress."
Andrew lifted his head quickly.
"You admit it at last, then?" he cried.
"Yes, I admit it now," Duncombe agreed.
"You lied to me there--to me who had no eyes, who trusted you. What was
that but betrayal, rank, inexcusable betrayal!"
"Listen, Andrew," Duncombe said. "She told me that she was not Phyllis
Poynton. It was enough for me. I disregarded my convictions. Her word
was my law. She said that she was not Phyllis Poynton, and to me she
never was Phyllis Poynton. She was afraid of you, and I helped her to
avoid you. I admit it! It is the extent of my failing in our friendship,
and you were warned."
"And now?"
"I am here now," Duncombe said a little sadly, "because I love her, and
because I cannot keep away. But she will not see me, and I am no nearer
solving the mystery than ever. On the contrary, I know that I am in
danger here. It is possible that I may be driven to leave Paris
to-night."
"You know where she is now?"
"Yes."
Andrew leaned suddenly over, and his grip was on Duncombe's shoulder
like a vise.
"Then, by God, you shall tell me!" he said fiercely. "Don't you know,
man, that Guy has been found in the Seine, robbed and drugged, and
murdered without a doubt? Do you want me to wait whilst something of the
same sort happens to her? You shall tell me where she is, Duncombe. I
say that you shall tell me!"
Duncombe hesitated.
"You can do no more than I have done," he said.
"Then at least I will do as much," Andrew answered. "I am her oldest
friend, and I have claims upon her which you never could have. Now that
she is in this terrible trouble my place is by her side. I----"
"One moment, Andrew," Duncombe interrupted. "Are you sure that it was
Guy Poynton who was found in the Seine? The height was given as five
feet nine, and Guy Poynton was over six feet."
"You should read the papers," Andrew answered shortly. "He was
identified by his sister."
"The papers said so," Duncombe answered hesitatingly; "but----"
"Look here," Andrew interrupted, "I have had enough of this playing with
facts. You have grown too complex about this business altogether,
Duncombe. Give me Phyllis Poynton's address."
"You shall have it," Duncombe answered, taking a leaf from his
pocketbook and writing. "I don't think that it will be any good to you.
I think that it is more likely to lead you into trouble. Miss Poynton is
with the Marquis and Marquise de St. Ethol. They are of the first
nobility in France. Their position as people of honor and circumstance
appears undoubted. But nevertheless, if you are allowed to see her I
shall be surprised."
The hall-porter approached them, hat in hand.
"A lady to see Monsieur," he announced to Andrew.
Andrew rose and took his companion's arm. He scarcely glanced again
towards Duncombe, who followed them out of the room. And there in the
hall awaiting them was the young lady from Vienna, quietly dressed in
black, but unmistakable with her pretty hair and perfumes. Duncombe
watched them shake hands and move away before he could recover
sufficiently from his first fit of surprise to intervene. Then a
realization of what had happened rushed in upon him. They, too, then,
had been to the Café Montmartre, with their obvious Anglicisms, their
clumsy inquiries--to make of themselves without doubt the jest of that
little nest of intriguers, and afterwards their tool. Duncombe thought
of the fruits of his own inquiries there, and shivered. He hurried after
the little party, who were apparently on their way to the café.
"Andrew," he said, grasping him by the arm, "I must speak with you
alone--at once."
"I see no object in any further discussion between us," Andrew said
calmly.
"Don't be a fool!" Duncombe answered. "That woman you are with is a spy.
If you have anything to do with her you are injuring Phyllis Poynton.
She is not here to give you information. She is at work for her own
ends."
"You are becoming more communicative, my friend," Andrew said, with
something which was almost a sneer. "You did not talk so freely a few
minutes back. It seems as though we were on the eve of a discovery."
"You are on the brink of making an idiot of yourself," Duncombe answered
quickly. "You were mad to bring that blundering English detective over
here. What the French police cannot or do not choose to discover, do you
suppose that they would allow an Englishman to find out--a stranger to
Paris, and with an accent like that? If I cannot keep you from folly by
any other means I must break my word to others. Come back into the
smoking-room with me, and I will tell you why you are mad to have
anything to do with that woman."
"Thank you," Andrew answered, "I think not. I have confidence in Mr.
Lloyd, my friend here, and I have none in you."
"Andrew!"
"I speak as I feel!"
"Leave me out of the question. It is Phyllis Poynton you will harm. I
see that your friend is listening, and Mademoiselle is impatient. Make
your excuses for ten minutes, Andrew. You will never regret it."
The detective, who had evidently overheard everything, stepped back to
them.
"You will excuse my interfering, sir," he said, "but if this case is to
remain in my hands at all it is necessary for me to hear all that Sir
George Duncombe has to say. The young lady will wait for a moment. This
case is difficult enough as it is, what with the jealousy of the French
police, who naturally don't want us to find out what they can't. If Sir
George Duncombe has any information to give now," the man added with
emphasis, "which he withheld a few minutes ago, I think that I ought to
hear it from his own lips."
"I agree entirely with what Mr. Lloyd has said," Andrew declared.
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He looked around him cautiously, but
they were in a corner of the entresol, and no one was within hearing
distance.
"Very well," he said. "To save you from danger, and Miss Poynton from
further trouble, I am going to break a confidence which has been reposed
in me, and to give you the benefit of my own surmises. In the first
place, Mr. Lloyd is mistaken in supposing that the French police have
been in the least puzzled by this double disappearance. On the contrary,
they are perfectly well aware of all the facts of the case, and could
have produced Miss Poynton or her brother at any moment. They are
working not for us, but against us!"
"Indeed!" Mr. Lloyd said in a tone of disbelief. "And their object?"
"Here is as much of the truth as I dare tell you," Duncombe said. "Guy
Poynton whilst on the Continent became the chance possessor of an
important State secret. He was followed to France by spies from that
country--we will call it Germany--and the young lady who awaits you so
impatiently is, if not one of them, at least one of their friends. At
the Café Montmartre he gave his secret away to people who are in some
measure allied with the secret service police of France. He was
kidnapped by them, and induced to remain hidden by a trick. Meanwhile
diplomacy makes use of his information, and foreign spies look for him
in vain. His sister, when she came to search for him, was simply an
inconvenience which these people had not contemplated. She was worked
upon by fears concerning her brother's safety to go into hiding. Both
have been well cared for, and the report of Guy's death is, I firmly
believe, nothing but an attempt to lull the anxieties of the spies who
are searching for him. This young woman here may be able to tell you
into whose hands he has fallen, but you may take my word for it that
she is in greater need of information than you are, and that she is an
exceedingly dangerous person for you to discuss the Poyntons with. There
are the crude facts. I have only known them a few hours myself, and
there is a good deal which I cannot explain. But this I honestly and
firmly believe. Neither you nor I nor Mr. Lloyd here can do the
slightest good by interfering in this matter. For myself, I am leaving
for England to-night."
Duncombe, like most honest men, expected to be believed. If he had
entertained the slightest doubt about it he would not have dared to open
his mouth. The silence that followed he could understand. No doubt they
were as amazed as he had been. But it was a different thing when he saw
the expression on Andrew's face as he turned to his companion.
"What do you think of this, Lloyd?" he asked.
"I am afraid, sir," the man answered, "that some of the clever ones have
been imposing upon Sir George. It generally turns out so when amateurs
tackle a job like this."
Duncombe looked at him in astonishment.
"Do you mean to say that you don't believe me?" he exclaimed.
"I wouldn't put it like that, sir," the man answered with a deprecating
smile. "I think you have been misled by those who did not wish you to
discover the truth."
Duncombe turned sharply on his heel.
"And you, Andrew?"
"I wish to do you justice," Andrew answered coldly, "and I am willing to
believe that you have faith yourself in the extraordinary story you
have just told us. But frankly I think that you have been too
credulous."
Duncombe lost his temper. He turned on his heel, and walked back into
the hotel.
"You can go to the devil your own way!" he declared.
CHAPTER VII
SPENCER GETS HIS CHANCE
Spencer tried to rise from the sofa, but the effort was too much for
him. Pale and thin, with black lines under his eyes, and bloodless lips,
he seemed scarcely more than the wreck of his former self.
His visitor laid his stick and hat upon the table. Then he bowed once
more to Spencer, and stood looking at him, leaning slightly against the
table.
"I am permitted," he asked gently, "to introduce myself?"
"Quite unnecessary!" Spencer answered.
The Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"You know me?" he asked.
The shadow of a smile flitted across Spencer's face.
"By many names, Monsieur Louis," he answered.
His visitor smiled. Debonair in dress and deportment, there seemed
nothing to inspire alarm in the air of gentle concern with which he
regarded the man whom he had come to visit. Yet Spencer cursed the
languor which had kept him from recovering the revolver which an hour or
more before had slipped from underneath his cushion.
"It saves trouble," Monsieur Louis said. "I come to you. Monsieur
Spencer, as a friend."
"You alarm me," Spencer murmured.
Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"You are pleased to be witty," he answered. "But indeed I am no such
terrible person. It is permitted that I smoke?"
"Certainly," Spencer answered. "If you care for wine or liqueurs pray
ring for my servant. I can assure you that it is not by my own will that
you find me so indifferent a host."
"I thank you," Monsieur Louis answered. "I think that we will not ring
the bell. It would be a pity to disturb an interview to which I have
looked forward with so much pleasure."
"_L'affaire Poynton?_" Spencer suggested.
"Precisely!"
"You have perhaps come to complete the little affair in which so far you
have succeeded so admirably?"
"Pray do not suggest such a thing," Monsieur Louis answered
deprecatingly. "For one thing I should not personally run the risk. And
for another have I not already assured you that I come as a friend?"
"It was then," Spencer answered, "that I began to be frightened."
Monsieur Louis smiled. He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket,
and calmly lit a cigarette.
"Since you permit, _mon ami_," he said. "Good! I speak better when I
smoke. You are not so ill, I see, but that you retain that charming
sense of humor your readers have learnt so well how to appreciate."
"The dose was scarcely strong enough," Spencer answered. "Or perhaps by
good fortune I stumbled upon the proper antidote."
"I see that you like plain speaking," Monsieur Louis continued with a
gentle smile. "Permit me to assure you then that the dose was quite as
strong as we wished. Extremes are sometimes necessary, but we avoid
them whenever possible."
"I wonder where it happened," Spencer said reflectively. "I have been on
my guard all the time. I have watched my wine and coffee at the cafés,
and I have eaten only in the restaurants that I know."
Monsieur Louis did not seem to think the matter important.
"It was bound to happen," he said. "If you had been like your
friends--the English baronet and the last two, who are even more
amusing--perhaps it would not have been necessary. But you
understand--you were beginning to discover things."
"Yes," Spencer admitted. "I was beginning to get interested."
"Exactly! We were forced to act. I can assure you, Monsieur Spencer,
that it was with reluctance. The others of whom I have spoken--Sir
George Duncombe, Monsieur Pelham, and his toy detective--forgive me that
I smile--walk all the time in the palm of our hand. But they remain
unharmed. If by any chance they should blunder into the knowledge of
things which might cause us annoyance, why, then--there would be more
invalids in Paris. Indeed, Monsieur, we do not seek to abuse our power.
My errand to you to-day is one of mercy."
"You make me ashamed," Spencer said, with a sarcasm which he took no
pains to conceal, "of my unworthy suspicions. To proceed."
"You have sent for Sir George Duncombe to come and see you!"
Spencer was silent for a moment. His own servant unfaithful? It was not
possible.
"Well?"
"Even you," the Baron continued, "have not yet solved the mystery of
_l'affaire Poynton_. But you know more than Sir George. Let me recommend
that you do not share your knowledge with him."
"Why not?"
"If you do Sir George will at once share your indisposition."
"I begin to understand," Spencer said.
"How otherwise? Send Sir George home. You see the delicacy of our
position. It is not so much that we fear Sir George Duncombe's
interference, but he again is followed and watched over by our enemies,
who would easily possess themselves of any information which he might
gain."
Spencer nodded.
"It is good reasoning," he admitted.
"Listen," Monsieur Louis continued. "I speak now on behalf of my
friends. You know whom I mean. You have solved the mystery of our
existence. We are omnipotent. The police and the secret service police
and the Government itself are with us. We have license throughout the
city. We may do what others may not. For us there is no crime. I kill
you now perhaps. The police arrive. I am before the Commissioner. I give
him the sign--it is _l'affaire Poynton_. I go free! It is a certain
thing."
"Granted!" Spencer said. "Proceed with your killing, or your argument."
"With the latter, if you please," Monsieur Louis answered. "I do not
choose to kill. _L'affaire Poynton_, then. Harm is not meant to either
of these young people. That I assure you upon my honor. In three weeks,
or say a month, we have finished. They may return to their homes if they
will. We have no further interest in them. For those three weeks you
must remain as you are--you, and if you have influence over him, Sir
George Duncombe. The other two fools we have no care for. If they
blundered into knowledge--well, they must pay. They are not our concern,
yours and mine. For you, I bring you an offer, Monsieur Spencer."
"_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!_" Spencer murmured.
Monsieur Louis smiled.
"My gift," he answered, "will not terrify you. You are a journalist. I
offer to make the fortune of your paper. You shall be the first to
announce an affair of the greatest international importance since the
war between Russia and Japan was declared. No, I will go further than
that. It is the greatest event since Waterloo."
"_L'affaire Poynton_ strikes so deep?" Spencer remarked.
"So deep," the Baron answered. "It is the fools who grope their way into
great places. So did the boy Poynton. You, my friend, shall be the one
brilliant exception. You shall make yourself the king of journalists,
and you shall be quoted down the century as having achieved the greatest
journalistic feat of modern days."
Spencer turned his drawn, haggard face towards his visitor. A slight
flush of color stained his cheek.
"You fascinate me," he said slowly. "I admit it. You have found the weak
spot in my armor. Proceed! For whom do you speak?"
Monsieur Louis abandoned his somewhat lounging attitude. He stood by
Spencer's side, and, leaning down, whispered in his ear. Spencer's eyes
grew bright.
"Monsieur Louis," he said, "you play at a great game."
The Baron shrugged his shoulders.
"Me!" he answered. "I am but a pawn. I do what I am told."
"To return for a moment to _l'affaire Poynton_," Spencer said. "I am in
the humor to trust you. Have I then your assurance that the boy and girl
do not suffer?"
"Upon my own honor and the honor of the company to whom I belong," he
answered with some show of dignity. "It is a pledge which I have never
yet broken."
"I am a bribed man," Spencer answered.
Monsieur Louis threw away his second cigarette. He cast a look almost of
admiration upon the man who still lay stretched upon the couch.
"You are the only Englishman I ever met, Monsieur Spencer," he said,
"who was not pig-headed. You have the tenacity of your countrymen, but
you have the genius to pick out the right thread from the tangle, to
know truth when you meet it, even in unlikely places. I doff my hat to
you, Monsieur Spencer. If you permit I will send my own physician to
you. You will be yourself in a week."
"You know the antidote?" Spencer remarked grimly.
"Naturally! Accidents will happen. You wish that I should send him?"
"Without doubt," Spencer answered. "I am weary of this couch."
"You shall leave it in a week," Monsieur promised, as he left the room.
Spencer closed his eyes. Already he felt coming on the daily headache,
which, with the terrible weakness, was a part of his symptoms. But there
was no rest for him yet. Monsieur Louis had scarcely been gone five
minutes when Duncombe arrived.
Duncombe had had no word of his friend's illness. He stood over his
couch in shocked surprise.
"My dear fellow," he exclaimed. "I had no idea that you were ill. This
is why I have not heard from you, then."
Spencer smiled as he held out his hand, and Duncombe, who seemed to
catch some meaning in the upraised eyebrows of his friend, was shocked.
"You mean?" he exclaimed.
Spencer nodded.
"_L'affaire Poynton_" he said gently. "A very subtle dose of poison
indeed, my friend. I shall not die, but I have had my little lesson.
Here the individual has little chance. We fight against forces that are
too many for us. I told you so at the start."
"Yet I," Duncombe answered, "have not suffered."
"My friend," Spencer answered, "it is because I am the more dangerous."
"You have discovered something?" Duncombe exclaimed.
"I came near discovering a great deal," Spencer answered. "Perhaps it
would have been better for my system if I had discovered a little less.
As it is I have finished with _l'affaire Poynton_ for the present. You
see how very nearly _l'affaire Poynton_ finished me."
"It is not like you," Duncombe said thoughtfully, "to give anything up."
"We come face to face sometimes with unique experiences, which destroy
precedent," Spencer answered. "This is one of them."
"And what," Duncombe asked, "do you advise me to do?"
"Always the same advice," Spencer answered. "Leave Paris to-day. Go
straight back to Norfolk, read the newspapers, and await events."
"Well, I think that I shall do so," Duncombe answered slowly. "I have
found out where Miss Poynton is, but she will not see me. I have made an
enemy of my dearest friend, and I have, at any rate, interrupted your
career and endangered your life. Yes, I will go back home."
"You may yet save your friend some--inconvenience," Spencer suggested.
"Try to persuade him to go back with you."
"He will not listen to me," Duncombe answered. "He has brought an
English detective with him, and he is as obstinate as a mule. For myself
I leave at nine o'clock."
"You are well advised, exceedingly well advised," Spencer said. "Mind I
do not take the responsibility of sending you away without serious
reasons. I honestly believe that Miss Poynton is safe, whatever may have
happened to her brother, and I believe that you will serve her best by
your temporary absence."
Duncombe stood for a moment wrapped in thought. The last few months had
aged him strangely. The strenuous days and nights of anxious thought had
left their mark in deep lines upon his face. He looked out of the
window of Spencer's room, and his eyes saw little of the busy street
below. He was alone once more with this strange, terrified girl upon the
hillside, with the wind in their faces, and making wild havoc in her
hair. He was with her in different moods in the little room behind his
library, when the natural joy of her young life had for the moment
reasserted itself. He was with her at their parting. He saw half the
fearful regret with which she had left his care and accepted the
intervention of the Marquise. Stirring times these had been for a man of
his quiet temperament, whom matters of sentiment and romance had passed
lightly by, and whose passions had never before been touched by the
finger of fire. And now he was going back to an empty life--a life at
least empty of joy, save the hope of seeing her again. For good or for
evil, the great thing had found its way into his life. His days of calm
animal enjoyment were over. Sorrow or joy was to be his. He had passed
into the shadows of the complex life.
He remembered where he was at last, and turned to Spencer.
"About yourself, Spencer," he said. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yes. I am not seriously ill," his friend answered. "The worst is over
now. And, Duncombe, it's hard for you to go, I know--but look here, I
believe that you will be back in a month, and taking Miss Poynton to
lunch _chez_ Ritz. I never felt so sure of it as I do to-day."
Duncombe remembered the answer to his note, and found it hard to share
his friend's cheerfulness.
CHAPTER VIII
A POLITICAL INTERLUDE
Duncombe laid down his cue and strolled towards the sideboard, where his
guest was already mixing himself a whisky and soda.
"By the by, Runton," he said, "have you seen anything of our friend Von
Rothe since that little affair at your place?"
Lord Runton shook his head.
"Not once," he answered. "He behaved very decently about it on the
whole; treated it quite lightly--but he wouldn't let me go near the
police. It was a long way the most unpleasant thing that ever happened
in my house."
"Never any further light upon it, I suppose?" Duncombe asked.
Lord Runton shook his head.
"None. Of course we could have traced them both without a doubt if we
had put it in the hands of the police, but Von Rothe wouldn't hear of
it. He tried to treat it lightly, but I know that he was very much
worried."
"Do you yourself believe," Duncombe asked, "that it was a political
affair or an ordinary robbery?"
"I think that it was the former," Lord Runton answered. "Those people
were not common adventurers. By the by, George, have you got over your
little weakness yet?" he added with a smile.
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders.
"Nearly made a fool of myself, didn't I?" he remarked, with a levity
which did not sound altogether natural.
"She was an uncommonly fascinating young woman," Lord Runton said, "but
she didn't seem to me very old at the game. She was clever enough to
fool Von Rothe, though. He admits that he told her that he was expecting
a special messenger from Berlin."
Duncombe seemed to have had enough of the subject. He got up and filled
his pipe.
"Is Jack coming down this week?" he asked.
"No! He wired this morning that he can't get away. Sefton isn't coming,
either. Between ourselves, George, something seems to be going on at the
Foreign Office which I don't understand."
"What do you mean?" Duncombe asked. "There has been no hint at any sort
of trouble in the papers."
"That's just what I don't understand," Lord Runton continued. "It is
certain that there is an extraordinary amount of activity at Portsmouth
and Woolwich, but even the little halfpenny sensational papers make no
more than a passing allusion to it. Then look at the movements of our
fleet. The whole of the Mediterranean Fleet is at Gibraltar, and the
Channel Squadron is moving up the North Sea as though to join the Home
Division. All these movements are quite unusual."
"What do you make of them then?" Duncombe asked.
"I scarcely know," Lord Runton answered. "But I can tell you this. There
have been three Cabinet Councils this week, and there is a curious air
of apprehension in official circles in town, as though something were
about to happen. The service clubs are almost deserted, and I know for a
fact that all leave in the navy has been suspended. What I don't
understand is the silence everywhere. It looks to me as though there
were really going to be trouble. The Baltic Fleet sailed this morning,
you know."
Duncombe nodded.
"But," he said, "even if they were ill disposed to us, as no doubt
Russia is just now, what could they do? One squadron of our fleet could
send them to the bottom."
"No doubt," Lord Runton answered. "But supposing they found an ally?"
"France will never go to war with us for Russia's benefit," Duncombe
declared.
"Granted," Lord Runton answered, "but have you watched Germany's
attitude lately?"
"I can't say that I have," Duncombe admitted, "but I should never look
upon Germany as a war-seeking nation."
"No, I dare say not," Lord Runton answered. "Nor would a great many
other people. Every one is willing to admit that she would like our
Colonies, but no one will believe that she has the courage to strike a
blow for them. I will tell you what I believe, Duncombe. I believe that
no Great Power has ever before been in so dangerous a position as we are
in to-day."
Duncombe sat up in his chair. The weariness passed from his face, and he
was distinctly interested. Lord Runton, without being an ardent
politician, was a man of common-sense, and was closely connected with
more than one member of the Cabinet.
"Are you serious, Runton?" he asked.
"Absolutely! Remember, I was in Berlin for two years, and I had many
opportunities of gaining an insight into affairs there. What I can see
coming now I have expected for years. There are two great factors which
make for war. One is the character of the Emperor himself, and the other
the inevitable rot, which must creep like a disease into a great army
kept always upon a war footing, through a decade or more of inactivity.
The Emperor is shrewd enough to see this. Nothing can possibly exist at
its best which is not used for the purpose to which it owes its
existence. That is why we have this flood of literature just now telling
us of the gross abuses and general rottenness of the German army.
Another five years of idleness, and Germany's position as the first
military nation will have passed away. Like every other great power, it
is rusting for want of use. The Emperor knows this."
Duncombe for many reasons was fascinated by his friend's quiet words.
Apart from their obvious plausibility, they brought with them many
startling suggestions. Had chance, he wondered, really made Phyllis
Poynton and her brother pawns in the great game? He felt himself stirred
to a rare emotion by the flood of possibilities which swept in suddenly
upon him. Lord Runton noted with surprise the signs of growing
excitement in his listener.
"Go on, Runton. Anything else?"
Lord Runton helped himself to a cigarette, and leaned across to light
it.
"Of course," he continued, "I know that there are a great many people
who firmly believe that for commercial reasons Germany would never seek
a quarrel with us. I will agree with them so far as to say that I do not
believe that a war with England would be popular amongst the bourgeois
of Germany. On the other hand, they would be quite powerless to prevent
it. The Emperor and his ministers have the affair in their own hands. A
slight break in our diplomatic relations, some trifle seized hold of by
the Press and magnified at once into an insult, and the war torch is
kindled. To-day war does not come about by the slowly growing desire of
nations. The threads of fate are in the hands of a few diplomatists at
Berlin and London--a turn of the wrist, and there is tension which a
breath can turn either way. You ask me why the Emperor should choose
England for attack. There are many reasons: first, because England alone
could repay him for the struggle; secondly, because he is intensely and
miserably jealous of our own King, who has avoided all his own
hot-headed errors, and has yet played a great and individual part in the
world's affairs; thirdly, because England is most easily attacked. I
could give you other reasons if you wanted them."
"Quite enough," Duncombe answered. "What do you suppose would be the
_casus belli_?"
"The progress of the Russian fleet through English waters," Lord Runton
answered promptly. "Russia's interest in such a misunderstanding would
be, of course, immense. She has only to fire on an English ship, by
mistake of course, and the whole fat would be in the fire. England
probably would insist upon the squadron being detained, Germany would
protest against any such action. We might very well be at war with
Russia and Germany within ten days. Russia would immediately either make
terms with Japan, or abandon any active operations in Manchuria and move
upon India. Germany would come for us."
"Is this all purely imagination?" Duncombe asked, "or have you anything
to go on?"
"So far as I am concerned," Lord Runton said slowly, "I, of course, know
nothing. But I have a strong idea that the Government have at least a
suspicion of some secret understanding between Russia and Germany. Their
preparations seem almost to suggest it. Of course we outsiders can only
guess, after all, at what is going on, but it seems to me that there is
a chance to-day for our Government to achieve a diplomatic _coup_."
"In what direction?"
"An alliance with France. Mind, I am afraid that there are
insurmountable obstacles, but if it were possible it would be checkmate
to our friend the Emperor, and he would have nothing left but to climb
down. The trouble is that in the absence of any definite proof of an
understanding between Russia and Germany, France could not break away
from her alliance with the former. Our present arrangement would ensure,
I believe, a benevolent neutrality, but an alliance, if only it could be
compassed, would be the greatest diplomatic triumph of our days. Hullo!
Visitors at this hour. Wasn't that your front-door bell, Duncombe?"
"It sounded like it," Duncombe answered. "Perhaps it is your man."
"Like his cheek, if it is!" Lord Runton answered, rising to his feet and
strolling towards the sideboard. "I told him I would telephone round to
the stables when I was ready. I suppose it is rather late, though I
sha'n't apologize for keeping you up."
"I hope you won't," Duncombe answered. "I have never been more
interested in my life--for many reasons. Don't bother about your man.
Groves will see to him. Help yourself to another whisky and soda, and
come and sit down."
There was a knock at the door, and the butler appeared.
"There are three gentlemen outside, sir, who wish to see you," he
announced to Duncombe. "They will not give their names, but they say
that their business is important, or they would not have troubled you so
late."
Duncombe glanced at the clock. It was past midnight.
"Three gentlemen," he repeated, "at this time of night. But where on
earth have they come from, Groves?"
"They did not say, sir," the man answered. "One of them I should judge
to be a foreigner. They have a motor car outside."
Lord Runton held out his hand.
"Well, it's time I was off, anyhow," he remarked. "Come over and have
lunch to-morrow. Don't bother about me. I'll stroll round to the stables
and start from there. Good night."
Duncombe hesitated. He was on the point of asking his friend to stay,
but before he could make up his mind Runton had lit a cigarette and
strolled away.
"You can show the gentlemen in here, Groves," Duncombe said.
"Very good, sir."
The man disappeared. Duncombe, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the
room, and opening an oak cupboard, slipped a small revolver into his
pocket.
CHAPTER IX
ARRESTED!
One of his three visitors Duncombe recognized immediately. It was
Monsieur Louis. Of the other two one was a Frenchman, a somewhat
sombre-looking person, in a black beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, the
other as unmistakably an Englishman of the lower middle class. His broad
shoulders and somewhat stiff bearing seemed to suggest some sort of
drill. Looking them over, Duncombe found himself instinctively wondering
whether the personal strength of these two, which was obvious, might
become a factor in the coming interview.
The Baron naturally was spokesman. He bowed very gravely to Duncombe,
and did not offer his hand.