It seemed to Louise that she had scarcely been in bed an hour when the
more confidential of her maids—Annette, the Frenchwoman—woke her with a
light touch of the arm. She sat up in bed sleepily.
“What is it, Annette?” she asked. “Surely it is not mid-day yet? Why do
you disturb me?”
“It is barely nine o’clock, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur
Bellamy—Mademoiselle told me that she wished to receive him whenever he
came. He is in the boudoir now, and very impatient.”
“Did he send any message?”
“Only that his business was of the most urgent,” the maid replied.
Louise sighed,—she was really very sleepy. Then, as the thoughts began
to crowd into her brain, she began also to remember. Some part of the
excitement of a few hours ago returned.
“My bath, Annette, and a dressing-gown,” she ordered. “Tell Monsieur
Bellamy that I hurry. I will be with him in twenty minutes.”
To Bellamy, the twenty minutes were minutes of purgatory. She came at
last, however, fresh and eager; her hair tied up with ribbon, she
herself clad in a pink dressing-gown and pink slippers.
“David!” she cried,—“my dear David—!”
Then she broke off.
“What is it?” she asked, in a different tone.
He showed her the headlines of the newspaper he was carrying.
“Tragedy!” he answered hoarsely. “Von Behrling was true, after all,—at
least, it seems so.”
“What has happened?” she demanded.
Bellamy pointed once more to the newspaper.
“He was murdered last night, within fifty yards of the place of our
rendezvous.”
A little exclamation broke from Louise’s lips. She sat down suddenly.
The color called into her cheeks by the exercise of her bath was
rapidly fading away.
“David,” she murmured, “is this true?”
“It is indeed,” Bellamy assured her. “Not only that, but there is no
mention of his pocket-book in the account of his murder. It must have
been engineered by Streuss and the others, and they have got away with
the pocket-book and the money.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
“There is nothing to be done,” Bellamy declared calmly. “We are
defeated. The thing is quite apparent. Von Behrling never succeeded,
after all, in shaking off the espionage of the men who were watching
him. They tracked him to our rendezvous, they waited about while I met
him. Afterwards, he had to pass along a narrow passage. It was there
that he was found murdered.”
“But, David, I don’t understand! Why did they wait until after he had
seen you? How did they know that he had not parted with the paper in
the restaurant? To all intents and purposes he ought to have done so.”
“I cannot understand that myself,” Bellamy admitted. “In fact, it is
inexplicable.”
She took up the newspaper and glanced at the report. Then, “You are
sure, I suppose, that this does refer to Von Behrling? He is quite
unidentified, you see.”
“There is no doubt about it,” Bellamy declared. “I have been to the
Mortuary. It is certainly he. All our work has been in vain—just as I
thought, too, that we had made a splendid success of it.”
She looked at him compassionately.
“It is hard lines, dear,” she admitted. “You are tired, too. You look
as though you had been up all night.”
“Yes, I am tired,” he answered, sinking into a chair. “I am worse than
tired. This has been the grossest failure of my career, and I am afraid
that it is the end of everything. I have lost twenty thousand pounds of
Secret Service money; I have lost the one chance which might have saved
England. They will never trust me again.”
“You did your best,” she said, coming over and sitting on the arm of
his chair. “You did your best, David.”
She laid her hands upon his forehead, her cheek against his—smooth and
cold—exquisitely refreshing it seemed to his jaded nerves.
“Ah, Louise!” he murmured, “life is getting a little too strenuous.
Perhaps we have given too much of it up to others. What do you think?”
She shook her head.
“Dear, I have felt like that sometimes, yet what can we do? Could we be
happy, you and I, in exile, if the things which we dread were coming to
pass? Could I go away and hide while my countrymen were being butchered
out of existence?— And you—you are not the sort of man to be content
with an ignoble peace. No, it isn’t possible. Our work may not be over
yet—”
There was a knock at the door, and Annette entered with many apologies.
“Mademoiselle,” she explained, “a thousand pardons, and to Monsieur
also, but there is a gentleman here who says that his business is of
the most urgent importance, and that he must see you at once. I have
done all that I can, but he will not go away. He knows that Monsieur
Bellamy is here, too,” she added, turning to him, “and he says his
business has to do with Monsieur as well as Mademoiselle.”
Bellamy almost snatched the card from the girl’s fingers. He read out
the name in blank amazement.
“Baron de Streuss!”
There was a moment’s silence. Louise and he exchanged wondering
glances.
“What can this mean?” she asked hoarsely.
“Heaven knows!” he answered. “Let us see him together. After all—after
all—”
“You can show the gentleman in, Annette,” her mistress ordered.
“If he has the papers,” Bellamy continued slowly, “why does he come to
us? It is not like these men to be vindictive. Diplomacy to them is
nothing—a game of chess. I do not understand.”
The door opened. Annette announced their visitor. Streuss bowed low to
Louise—he bowed, also, to Bellamy.
“I need not introduce myself,” he said. “With Mr. Bellamy I have the
honor to be well acquainted. Madame is known to all the world.”
Louise nodded, somewhat coldly.
“We can dispense with an introduction, I think, Monsieur le Baron,” she
said. “At the same time, you will perhaps explain to what I owe this
somewhat unexpected pleasure?”
“Mademoiselle, an explanation there must certainly be. I know that it
is an impossible hour. I know, too, that to have forced my presence
upon you in this manner may seem discourteous. Yet the urgency of the
matter, I am convinced, justifies me.”
Louise motioned him to a chair, but he declined with a little bow of
thanks.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “and you, Mr. Bellamy, we need not waste
words. We have played a game of chess together. You, Mademoiselle, and
Mr. Bellamy on the one side—I and my friends upon the other. The honor
of Rudolph Von Behrling was the pawn for which we fought. The victory
remains with you.”
Bellamy never moved a muscle. Louise, on the contrary, could not help a
slight start.
“Under the circumstances,” the Baron continued smoothly, “the struggle
was uneven. I do myself the justice to remember that from the first I
realized that we played a losing game. Mademoiselle,” he added, “from
the days of Cleopatra—ay, and throughout those shadowy days which lie
beyond—the diplomats of the world have been powerless when matched
against your sex. Rudolph Von Behrling was an honest fellow enough
until he looked into your eyes. Mademoiselle, you have gifts which
might, perhaps, have driven from his senses a stronger man.”
Louise smiled, but there was no suggestion of mirth in the curl of her
lips. Her eyes all the time sought his questioningly. She did not
understand.
“You flatter me, Baron,” she murmured.
“No, I do not flatter you, I speak the truth. This plain talking is
pleasant enough when the time comes that one may indulge in it. That
time, I think, is now. Rudolph Von Behrling, against my advice, but
because he was the Chancellor’s nephew, was associated with me in a
certain enterprise, the nature of which is no secret to you,
Mademoiselle, or to Mr. Bellamy here. We followed a man who, by some
strange chance, was in possession of a few sheets of foolscap, the
contents of which were alike priceless to my country and priceless to
yours. The subsequent history of those papers should have been
automatic. The first step was fulfilled readily enough. The man
disappeared—the papers were ours. Von Behrling was the man who secured
them, and Von Behrling it was who retained them. If my advice had been
followed, I admit frankly that we should have ignored all possible
comment and returned with them at once to Vienna. The others thought
differently. They ruled that we should come on to London and deposit
the packet with our Ambassador here. In a weak moment I consented. It
was your opportunity, Mademoiselle, an opportunity of which you have
splendidly availed yourself.”
This time Louise held herself with composure. Bellamy’s brain was in a
whirl but he remained silent.
“I come to you both,” the Baron continued, “with my hands open. I
come—I make no secret of it—I come to make terms. But first of all I
must know whether I am in time. There is one question which I must ask.
I address it, sir, to you,” he added, turning to Bellamy. “Have you yet
placed in the hands of your Government the papers which you obtained
from Von Behrling?”
Bellamy shook his head.
The Baron drew a long breath of relief. Though he had maintained his
savoir faire perfectly, the fingers which for a moment played with his
tie, as though to rearrange it, were trembling.
“Well, then, I am in time. Will you see my hand?”
“Mademoiselle and I,” answered Bellamy, “are at least ready to listen
to anything you may have to say.”
“You know quite well,” the Baron continued, “what it is that I have
come to say, yet I want you to remember this. I do not come to bribe
you in any ordinary manner. The things which are to come will happen;
they must happen, if not this year, next,—if not next year, within half
a decade of years. History is an absolute science. The future as well
as the past can be read by those who know the signs. The thing which
has been resolved upon is certain. The knowledge of the contents of
those papers by your Government might delay the final catastrophe for a
short while; it could do no more. In the long run, it would be better
for your country, Mr. Bellamy, in every way, that the end come soon.
Therefore, I ask you to perform no traitorous deed. I ask you to do
that which is simply reasonable for all of us, which is, indeed, for
the advantage of all of us. restore those papers to me instead of
handing them to your Government, and I will pay you for them the sum of
one hundred thousand pounds!”
“One hundred thousand pounds,” Bellamy repeated.
“One hundred thousand pounds!” murmured Louise.
There was a brief, intense pause. Louise waited, warned by the
expression in Bellamy’s face. Silence, she felt, was safest, and it was
Bellamy who spoke.
“Baron,” said he, “your visit and your proposal are both a little
amazing. Forgive me if I speak alone with Mademoiselle for a moment.”
“Most certainly,” the Baron agreed. “I go away and leave you—out of the
room, if you will.”
“It is not necessary,” Bellamy replied. “Louise!” The Baron withdrew to
the window, and Bellamy led Louise into the furthest corner of the
room.
“What can it mean?” he whispered. “What do you suppose has happened?”
“I cannot imagine. My brain is in a whirl.”
“If they have not got the pocket-book,” Bellamy muttered, “it must have
gone with Von Behrling to the Mortuary. If so, there is a chance.
Louise, say nothing; leave this to me.”
“As you will,” she assented. “I have no wish to interfere. I only hope
that he does not ask me any questions.”
They came once more into the middle of the room, and the Baron turned
to meet them.
“You must forgive Mademoiselle,” said Bellamy, “if she is a little
upset this morning. She knows, of course, as I know and you know, that
Von Behrling was playing a desperate game, and that he carried his life
in his hands. Yet his death has been a shock—has been a shock, I may
say, to both of us. From your point of view,” Bellamy went on, “it was
doubtless deserved, but—”
“What, in God’s name, is this that you say?” the Baron interrupted. “I
do not understand at all! You speak of Von Behrling’s death! What do
you mean?”
Bellamy looked at him as one who listens to strange words.
“Baron,” he said, “between us who know so much there is surely no need
for you to play a part. Von Behrling knew that you were watching him.
Your spies were shadowing him as they have done me. He knew that he was
running terrible risks. He was not unprepared and he has paid. It is
not for us—”
“Now, in God’s name, tell me the truth!” Baron de Streuss interrupted
once more. “What is it that you are saying about Von Behrling’s death?”
Bellamy drew a little breath between his teeth. He leaned forward with
his hands resting upon the table.
“Do you mean to say that you do not know?”
“Upon my soul, no!” replied the Baron.
Bellamy threw open the newspaper before him.
“Von Behrling was murdered last night, ten minutes after our
interview.”