The Red Symbol

by John Ironside

  CHAPTER III

  THE BLOOD-STAINED PORTRAIT

  In the vestibule I hung around waiting till Anne and Mrs. DennisSutherland should reappear from the cloak-room.

  It was close on the time when I was due at Whitehall Gardens, but I musthave a parting word with Anne, even at the risk of being late for theappointment with my chief.

  Jim and Mary passed through, and paused to say good night.

  "It's all right, Maurice?" Mary whispered. "And you're coming to usto-morrow, anyhow?"

  "Yes; to say good-bye, if I have to start on Monday."

  "Just about time you were on the war-path again, my boy," said Jim,bluffly. "Idleness is demoralizing, 'specially in London."

  Now this was scarcely fair, considering that it was little more than amonth since I returned from South Africa, where I had been to observeand report on the conditions of labor in the mines; nor had I been byany means idle during those weeks of comparative leisure. But I knew,of course, that this was an oblique reference to my affair withAnne; though why Jim should disapprove of it so strongly passed mycomprehension. If Anne chose to keep me on tenter-hooks, well that wasmy affair, not his! Still, I wasn't going to quarrel with Jim over hisopinion, as I should have quarrelled with any other man.

  Anne joined me directly, and we had two precious minutes together underthe portico. Mrs. Sutherland's carriage had not yet come into thecourtyard, and she herself was chatting with folks she knew.

  There were plenty of people about, coming and going, but Anne and Ipaced along out of the crowd, and paused in the shadow of one of thepillars.

  She looked ethereal, ghostlike, in her long white cloak, with a filmyhood thing drawn loosely over her shining hair.

  I thought her paler than usual--though that might have been the effectof the electric lights overhead--and her face was wistful, but very fairand sweet and innocent. One could scarcely believe it the same facethat, a few minutes before, had been animated by audacious mischief andcoquetry. Truly her moods were many, and they changed with everyfleeting moment.

  "I've behaved abominably to you all the evening," she whisperedtremulously. "And yet you've forgiven me."

  "There's nothing to forgive. The queen can do no wrong," I answered.(How Jim Cayley would have jeered at me if he could have heard!) "Anne,I love you. I think you must know that by this time, dear."

  "Yes, I know, and--and I am glad--Maurice, though I don't deserve thatyou should love me. I've teased you so shamefully--I don't know whatpossessed me!"

  If I could only have kissed those faltering lips! But I dare not. Wewere within range of too many curious eyes. Still, I held her hand inmine, and our eyes met. In that brief moment we saw each into theother's soul, and saw love there, the true love passionate and pure,that, once born, lasts forever, through life and death and all eternity.

  She was the first to speak, breaking a silence that could have lastedbut a fraction of time, but there are seconds in which one experiencesan infinitude of joy or sorrow.

  "And you are going away--so soon! But we shall meet to-morrow?"

  "Yes, we'll have one day, at least; there is so much to say--"

  Then, in a flash, I remembered the old man and Cassavetti,--the mysterythat enshrouded them, and her.

  "I may not be able to come early, darling," I continued hurriedly. "Ihave to see that old man in the morning. He says he knows you,--that youare in danger; I could not make out what he meant. And he spoke ofCassavetti; he came to see him, really. That was why I dare not tell youthe whole story just now--"

  "Cassavetti!" she echoed, and I saw her eyes dilate and darken. "Who ishe--what is he? I never saw him before, but he came up and talked to Mr.Cayley, and asked to be introduced to me; and--and I was so vexed withyou, Maurice, that I began to flirt with him; and then--oh, I don'tknow--he is so strange--he perplexes--frightens me!"

  "And yet you gave him a flower," I said reproachfully.

  "I can't think why! I felt so queer, as if I couldn't help myself. Ijust had to give him one,--that one; and when I looked athim,--Maurice, what does a red geranium mean? Has it--"

  "Mrs. Dennis Sutherland's carriage!" bawled a liveried official by thecentre steps.

  Mrs. Sutherland swept towards us.

  "Come along, Anne," she cried, as we moved to meet her. "Perhaps weshall see you later, Mr. Wynn? You'll be welcome any time, up to oneo'clock."

  I put them into the carriage, and watched them drive away; then started,on foot, for Whitehall Gardens. The distance was so short that I couldcover it more quickly walking than driving.

  The night was sultry and overcast; and before I reached my destinationbig drops of rain were spattering down, and the mutter of thundermingled with the ceaseless roll of the traffic.

  I was taken straight to Lord Southbourne's sanctum, a handsomelyfurnished, but almost ostentatiously business-like apartment.

  Southbourne himself, seated at a big American desk, was makinghieroglyphics on a sheet of paper before him while he dictated rapidlyto Harding, his private secretary, who manipulated a typewriter closeby.

  He looked up, nodded to me, indicated a chair, and a table on which werewhiskey and soda and an open box of cigarettes, and invited me to helpmyself, all with one sweep of the hand, and without an instant'sinterruption of his discourse,--an impassioned denunciation of someBritish statesman who dared to differ from him--Southbourne--on someburning question of the day, Tariff Reform, I think; but I did notlisten. I was thinking of Anne; and was only subconsciously aware ofthe hard monotonous voice until it ceased.

  "That's all, Harding. Thanks. Good night," said Southbourne, abruptly.

  He rose, yawned, stretched himself, sauntered towards me, subsided intoan easy-chair, and lighted a cigarette.

  Harding gathered up his typed slips, exchanged a friendly nod with me,and quietly took himself off.

  I knew Southbourne's peculiarities fairly well, and therefore waited forhim to speak.

  We smoked in silence for a time, till he remarked abruptly: "Carson'sdead."

  "Dead!" I ejaculated, in genuine consternation. I had known and likedCarson; one of the cleverest and most promising of Southbourne's "youngmen."

  He blew out a cloud of smoke, watched a ring form and float away as ifit were the only interesting thing in the world. Then he fired anotherword off at me.

  "Murdered!"

  He blew another smoke ring, and there was a spell of silence. I do noteven now know whether his callousness was real or feigned. I hope it wasfeigned, though he affected to regard all who served him, in whatevercapacity, as mere pieces in the ambitious game he played, to be used ordiscarded with equal skill and ruthlessness, and if an unlucky pawn fellfrom the board,--why it was lost to the game, and there was an end ofit.

  Murdered! It seemed incredible. I thought of Carson as I last saw him,the day before I started for South Africa, when we dined together andmade a night of it. If I had been available when the situation becameacute in Russia a few weeks later, Southbourne would have sent meinstead of him; I should perhaps have met with his fate. I knew, ofcourse, that at this time a "special" in Russia ran quite as many risksas a war correspondent on active service; but it was one thing toencounter a stray bullet or a bayonet thrust in the course of one'sday's work,--say during an _emeute_,--and quite another to be murderedin cold blood.

  "That's terrible!" I said huskily, at last. "He was such a splendidchap, too, poor Carson. Have you any details?"

  "Yes; he was found in his rooms, stabbed to the heart. He must have beendead twenty-four hours or more."

  "And the police have tracked the murderer?"

  "No, and I don't suppose they will. They've so many similar affairs oftheir own on hand, that an Englishman more or less doesn't count. TheEmbassy is moving in the matter, but it is very unlikely that anythingwill be discovered beyond what is known already,--that it was the workof an emissary of some secret society with which Carson had mixedhimself up, in defiance of my instructions."

&nbs
p; He paused and lighted another cigarette.

  "How do you know he defied your instructions?" I burst out indignantly.The tone of his allusion to Carson riled me. "Don't you always expect usto send a good story, no matter how, or at what personal risk, we getthe material?"

  "Just so," he asserted calmly. "By the way, if you're in a funk, Wynn,you needn't go. I can get another man to take your place to-night."

  "I'm not in a funk, and I mean to go, unless you want to send anotherman. If you do, send him and be damned to you both!" I retorted hotly."Look here, Lord Southbourne; Carson never failed in his duty,--I'dstake my life on that! And I'll not allow you, or any man, to sneer athim when he's dead and can't defend himself!"

  Southbourne dropped his cigarette and stared at me, a dusky flush risingunder his sallow skin. That is the only time I have ever seen any signof emotion on his impassive face.

  "I apologize, Mr. Wynn," he said stiffly. "I ought not to haveinsinuated that you were afraid to undertake this commission. Your pastrecord has proved you the very reverse of a coward! And, I assure you, Ihad no intention of sneering at poor Carson or of decrying his work. Butfrom information in my possession I know that he exceeded hisinstructions; that he ceased to be a mere observer of the vivid drama ofRussian life, and became an actor in it, with the result, poor chap,that he has paid for his indiscretion with his life!"

  "How do you know all this?" I demanded. "How do you know--"

  "That he was not in search of 'copy,' but in pursuit of his privateends, when he deliberately placed himself in peril? Well, I do know it;and that is all I choose to say on this point. I warned him at theoutset,--as I need not have warned you,--that he must exercise infinitetact and discretion in his relations with the police, and thebureaucracy which the police represent; and also with the people,--thedemocracy. That he must, in fact, maintain a strictly impartial andimpersonal attitude and view-point. Well, that's just what he failed todo. He became involved with some secret society; you know as well as Ido--better, perhaps--that Russia is honeycombed with 'em. Probably inthe first instance he was actuated by curiosity; but I have reason tobelieve that his connection with this society was a purely personalaffair. There was a woman in it, of course. I can't tell you just how hecame to fall foul of his new associates, for I don't know. Perhaps theyimagined he knew too much. Anyhow, he was found, as I have said, stabbedto the heart. There is no clue to the assassin, except that in Carson'sclenched hand was found an artificial flower,--a red geranium, which--"

  I started upright, clutching the arms of my chair. A red geranium! Thebit of stuff dangling from Cassavetti's pass-key; the hieroglyphic onthe portrait, the flower Anne had given to Cassavetti, and to which heseemed to attach so much significance. All red geraniums. What did theymean?

  "The police declare it to be the symbol of a formidable secretorganization which they have hitherto failed to crush; one that hasramifications throughout the world," Southbourne continued. "Why, man,what's wrong with you?" he added hastily.

  I suppose I must have looked ghastly; but I managed to steady my voice,and answer curtly: "I'll tell you later. Go on, what about Carson?"

  He rose and crossed to his desk before he answered, scrutinizing me withkeen interest the while.

  "That's all. Except that this was found in his breast-pocket; I got itby to-night's mail. It's in a horrid state; the blood soaked through, ofcourse."

  He picked up a small oblong card, holding it gingerly in hisfinger-tips, and handed it to me.

  I think I knew what it was, even before I looked at it. A photograph ofAnne Pendennis, identical--save that it was unframed--with that whichwas in the possession of the miserable old Russian, even to theinitials, the inscription, and the red symbol beneath it!